


The Princess and the Chekist

by WolfOfAnsbach



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Historical, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Roaring Twenties, Thriller
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2019-04-02
Packaged: 2019-04-17 05:55:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 27,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14182311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolfOfAnsbach/pseuds/WolfOfAnsbach
Summary: Cheryl Blossom was a princess. She danced in the ballrooms of St. Petersburg and dined with kings and queens in Moscow. Then revolution seized Russia and swept all that away. Aristocrats went to to the firing squad, her family perished, and she fled.Now Cheryl wastes away in Parisian exile, dreaming of lost luxuries. She's even had to find a job! Three times a week she models for this or that clothing brand, while an insufferable American by the name of Topaz photographs her. It's no way for a well-bred lady to live.Meanwhile, on the other side of Europe, the Bolshevik government dispatches a ruthless Cheka man by the name of Jones to bring the Princess Cheryl Blossom back to Soviet Russia, alive or otherwise.--Or, love, loss, adventure, and Soviet assassins in Roaring Twenties Paris.





	1. The Lost Generation

**Author's Note:**

> Three things inspired this story;
> 
> 1) The Anastasia Broadway soundtrack
> 
> 2) An article I read on Russian noblewomen exiled after the Bolshevik victory who made a living modeling in Paris (apparently a fairly common phenomenon)
> 
> 3) the song 'Rasputin' by Boney M

**_Paris, France-_ ** **1921**

 

Cheryl Blossom hated Paris. She hated the brilliant mass of incandescent light it became each evening. She hated the ugly, half-finished skeleton of the Eiffel Tower stabbing up at the skies. She hated the wistful artists and poets that seemed to infest every street corner and park like so many rats. She hated the Seine, filthy and gray. She hated the automobile traffic choking ancient cobblestone streets meant for pedestrians and riders. She hated the seething rabble that thronged the city’s alleys and back ways like ants.

Most of all, she hated the depths to which she, a  _princess_ for God’s sake, had to stoop in order to make ends meet.

“You’re doing great! Okay, now turn around a little, we really want to catch the hem of the dress.”

Cheryl sighed and complied. She lifted her leg to get the hem of the garment, a shapeless blue thing, into the shot.

“Are we  _done_?”

“Yep! That’s all!” The photographer, an American expatriate by the name of Antoinette looked up from behind her camera and beamed.

“For the record, this is quite possibly the worst dress I’ve ever laid eyes upon,” Cheryl spat in disgust.

Antoinette, or Toni, as she preferred (but by which Cheryl was loathe to call her) shrugged.

“Well, we’re not the ones wearing them, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Cheryl sneered.

“Boss is gonna like these, though. They’ll come out really good, I think.”

Cheryl fluffed her red hair.

“Of course they will. They’re of  _me_.”

Toni rolled her eyes. Cheryl’s eyes flashed with fury.

“You know, back in Russia, if you disrespected me that wa-“

“Hate to break it to ya, sweetheart, but you’re not in Russia anymore.”

Cheryl was about ready to explode.

Instead of responding to the American’s needling, she whipped her head towards the exit to the studio.

“Elizabeta!” she barked.

Her blonde attendant, who preferred ‘Betty’ (not that Cheryl cared what she preferred) poked her head in through the door.

“Yes, highness?”

“Tell Archibald to get the automobile ready. And if it isn’t ready by the time I get out there, so help me God!” Elizabeta disappeared to carry out her orders.

Cheryl made for the dressing room to tear off this abominable blue dress.

“See you next week, then?” Toni called.

“God is unjust, so most likely.”

She slammed the dressing room door closed behind her and shuddered. This was the worst. The absolute  _worst_. Positively  _infernal_. She once entertained  _royalty_ , and here she was debasing herself for the rabble so some two-bit  _noveaux riche_  bourgeois could sell his latest ball gown or shift.  _Modeling_. There could be no ‘profession’ that better encapsulated the sheer hopelessness and depravity of the modern world. But it was hers.

Outside, Archibald had mercifully managed to get the car running. He was leaning across the hood, chatting amicably with Elizabeta, who looked rather smitten. Personally, Cheryl didn’t give a damn whether her chauffeur and her attendant were in love or despised each other. But she did give a damn should it happen to make her farce of a life a little more difficult.

Betty saw her coming, and nudged Archibald, who snapped to attention and hopped behind the wheel. Elizabeta crawled into the backseat, clearing the way for her mistress. Cheryl slipped into the auto. Archibald craned his head around to look at her.

“Are you alright, highness? What’s bothering you?”

“Oh, Archibald. I realize that turning a wheel or pulling a lever are the extent of your intellectual ability, but  _please_ do try to recall that I pay you to  _drive_ and not to do a poor impression of Mr. Freud! Now  _drive_!”

The automobile coughed, and then trundled off through the grimy streets of Paris.

Her two attendants were mercifully quiet all the way home. She would never admit it, of course, but she was grateful she still had them. In all likelihood, they stayed on for the same reason she  _kept_ them on. Because they reminded each other of home, on some level.

They pulled up before her townhouse in the 16th arrondissement and she stepped gingerly out of the car with all of the grace and poise that befitted a noblewoman. Archibald opened her door, of course. He’d forgotten once a few months before, and the tongue-lashing she’d given him had made quite sure he’d never do it again.

“Look!” a shabbily dressed young woman exclaimed to her child. “It’s the Russian princess!” Cheryl whirled around and fixed the poor woman with a glare so withering that she drew her child closer to her and vanished down an alleyway.

Horrible. Horrible. It was all so  _horrible_. She  _hated_ it here. She wanted to go  _home._

Every damn day there were at least half a dozen gawkers that congregated in the street outside her house, milling about in a pathetic attempt to appear inconspicuous while they waited and hoped for a glimpse of ‘the Russian princess’.

Because these simple-minded creatures had no understanding of anything beyond the six city blocks they called home, they could not even begin to comprehend the intricate and expansive system of Russian nobility. They did not understand that ‘prince’ and ‘princess’ did not in Russia mean an heir apparent to a throne, and in fact approximated something closer to a Duke or Duchess, and so they assumed her the daughter of the Tsar. Idiots. They were all  _idiots_.

They marched up to the door. Kevin Keller, her armed guard, stepped aside to allow them entry. He tipped his hat to them. Cheryl stormed by without a word.

Sequestering herself in her room, she heard Archibald and Elizabeta whispering out in the hall. They truly thought she didn’t hear them.

“She’s worse than usual today,” Elizabeta whispered.

“It’s just because it’s a work day. You know how much she hates it,” Archibald said. 

For a moment, Cheryl considered shrieking ‘I heard that!’ in German, which they understood was her ‘angry language’, but she decided against it.

Instead, she curled up on her canopied bed and decided to try for a nap. She closed the curtains, so that she wouldn’t accidentally catch a glimpse of the accursed city.

Her wall was covered in paintings and icons that had survived the flight from Petersburg, and then the harrowing journey across the continent. Several Byzantine crosses, each worth more than this entire townhouse. Mother’s box with the bones of some Ukrainian saint or another. The portrait of Jason made just before the revolution.

Sometimes she considered tearing it all down in a fit of rage and burning it. What did it do but remind her of the home she would never see again?

No, she  _would_ see it again. Very soon they would drive those Bolshevik swine out, and Holy Russia would be restored to her glory. More importantly, she would be restored to her  _home_. It had to be so. It  _would_ be so.

With that thought, she drifted off.

When Cheryl awoke, it was moonlight instead of sun slipping in through her curtains. Some of the animal rage in her chest had dissipated. She slipped out of bed, rubbing her eyes.

There was a knock at her chamber door.

“Who?”

“It’s me, highness,” came the soft voice of Ethel Muggs, her Dutch live in maid.

“What is it, Ethel?” Cheryl sighed.

“Er…Veronica Lodge is here.”

Cheryl groaned.

“ _Why?”_

“She’s asking if you want to come down to the Riverdale Club.”

“Why, in the names of all the saints, would I want to do _that_?”

“She says she’ll pay for all of your drinks.”

She equivocated for a second. Veronica Lodge wasn’t a  _friend_ exactly. The daughter of a wealthy, self-made New York industrialist, she was just the sort of upstart new money a well-bred lady like Cheryl had been reared to despise. That they both had mean competitive streaks didn’t exactly help. But still, she was probably the closest thing Cheryl had to a  _companion_ , at least. And she  _could_ use a drink.

But to be seen at that obscene little club? That seemed beneath Veronica even.

“Tell her to go away,” Cheryl commanded. She heard Ethel shuffling away. She returned a minute or two later.

“She says you owe her after the Clemenceau incident.”

“Oh for God’s sake!  _Fine!_ But I’ll need a bath drawn first, so I hope she’s ready to wait!”

One (intentionally drawn out) bath later, Cheryl was dressed up and descending the staircase to meet Veronica, who stood outside idling by her idling automobile. She was the epitome of the modern woman, in her loose, relaxed dresses, jangling pearls, and cloche hats. She would have given high society back in St. Petersburg a heart attack.

“Well, you sure know how to keep a girl waiting,  _your highness,_ ” Veronica teased.

Cheryl piled into the car.

“I know how to put uppity bourgeois in their place.”

“Ooh. Testy, tonight?”

“Just drive, you heathen.”

“So, your driver, what’s his name, Archibald?”

“Don’t bring him up.”

“No, it’s just I saw him coming out as I was coming in,” Veronica winked and licked her lips. Cheryl gagged. “Haven’t you ever considered taking a lover?”

“I’d drown myself in the Seine before I took that boy as a  _lover_.”

Veronica shrugged.

“Excuse me, I’m still struggling to understand old world decorum.”

The Riverdale Club was run by a tall, handsome cad named Reginald Mantle from the western United States, who strutted around the premises in a black suit and a bowler hat, twirling his cane and talking up every pretty young lady luckless or witless enough to wander in. The place was a nexus for Paris’ thriving community of American and British expatriates, as well as for fashionable young Parisians eager to partake in the latest fads from across the pond.

Veronica hooked her arm into Cheryl’s and marched her inside. Instantly, they were struck by the overpowering scent of alcohol and cigars.

On the stage, shrouded by smoke and bathed in glaring red light, a lovely young performer from Virginia named Josephine McCoy and her troupe crooned  _The Sheikh of Araby_.

“Come on!” Veronica urged. “Let’s dance!”

“Aha. I don’t think so,” Cheryl oozed. “ _This_ isn’t dancing.” She scoffed, gesturing to the enraptured crowd moving along with the music. “This is  _convulsing,_ ” Cheryl charged, remembering nights of gentle, elegant waltzes in the glittering ballrooms of the Winter Palace.

Veronica shrugged, and hurried out onto the floor to join in the fun. Cheryl sank into a chair and ordered a drink. So this was her life now. God strike her dead.

She hardly noticed the figure approaching from the left until she was already at her table.

“Well, well. Fancy finding you here.”

She hissed upon recognizing Antoinette. The cheeky photographer slid into the seat across from her, a big, triumphant smile on her face.

“Well, I’d say the same to you, except finding you in an establishment like this is...quite expected.”

“Well, you're here too. Anyway, I wasn’t aware you were capable of  _having_ fun,” Antoinette said.

“Do I  _look_ like I’m having fun?” Cheryl snapped.

“Not  _yet,_ ” she pointed to Cheryl’s drink. “But if you take a few more sips of  _that_ , then  _maybe_.”

Cheryl sighed. She took a sip.

“God! What is this? Horse’s piss?”

Antoinette ignored her.

“Hey! Good news.” The woman produced a large leather bag. She sat it down on the table and reached inside. She slapped down a stack of photographs. Cheryl almost fainted upon realizing that they were the pictures from her latest session at the studio. She inspected one of the photographs. She was wearing a black, fringed dress cinched loosely around the waist. One foot was perched on a chair. Her hair was carefully combed over her right eye. Antoinette smiled, clearly enjoying her discomfort. “Looks good, right?”

“Only because I overshadow these nightmarish…garments.”

“Hey, like I’ve told you a hundred times, I don’t wear the stuff, I just make it look good. Well,  _we_ make it look good.”

“Is that you? Damn!”

Cheryl suddenly found Reginald Mantle standing over her. He examined the pictures, too, then wolf-whistled. Cheryl leaped out of her seat, ready to claw the boor’s throat out.

Veronica materialized from the crowd in the nick of time, narrowly saving Mantle from being eviscerated by a very angry Russian princess.

“Wow! Wow! Cheryl! Please don’t kill the boss! They’ll never let me back in here!”

Antoinette surreptitiously slipped the photos back into her bag.

“Hey, you’re that uh…that countess or somethin’, right?” Reginald mumbled, already drunk.

“ _Princess,_ ” Cheryl seethed.

“My mistake, your highness,” he said smoothly, an infuriating smile on his face.

“You uppity-“

Reginald looked over Cheryl’s shoulder to Antoinette.

“Damn, she always like this? Is she even zozzled yet?”

Antoinette groaned.

“Reggie, go chase yourself. She doesn’t want to talk to you, and neither do I, right now.”

Reginald threw up his hands in surrender and departed.

Josephine and her troupe played on.

_I’m the Sheikh of Araby_

_Your love belongs to me_

“God, I should have never come here,” Cheryl groaned.

“The Riverdale, or Paris?” Antoinette inquired.

“Both, now that you mention it.” 

Antoinette shrugged.

“I feel the same way, sometimes. You think I like having to cajole a fussy princess to sit still and stay in frame three times a week?”

“You should be so lucky!”

“Well, I guess I should. You know, when I was a kid I always wanted to meet a real life princess. Never figured they’d be so difficult.”

Cheryl stirred her drink.

“You’d be difficult, too.”

Antoinette didn’t ask ‘if what?’

“I’ve been meaning to ask you, ‘cept I didn’t want you to claw my eyes out. How’s it you get the last name ‘Blossom’? That’s not very Russian, is it?”

“My father was English,” she sighed. “House Blossom. Back to the days of the Plantaganets.”

“And your mother?” Antoinette leaned in, a little intrigued.

“House of Wrangel. It goes back further.”

Antoinette had the tact to keep from asking why she referred to her parents in the past tense.

“I guess that explains it. You speak pretty good English for a Russian.”

“German, French, Polish, and Italian, too. It’d better be good. Mother and father didn't spend a fortune on the finest tutors in Europe so I could learn to speak  _bad_ English.”

Two young men emerged from the crowd. Wrapped up in leather jackets, walking with the swagger that comes only of unearned youthful confidence, Cheryl could tell right away they were not Frenchmen. More Americans, probably.

Antoinette rolled her eyes.

“Hi, Sweet Pea. Fangs.”

The tall one, a dark-haired giant who was evidently called ‘Sweet Pea’ eyed Cheryl with interest.

“Ho-ly shit. So this is her, Toni? The…Russian princess?” He didn’t wait for answer. He just nodded and elbowed his friend, Fangs. “Huh,” Sweet Pea mumbled.

“Cheryl, this is Sweet Pea-don’t ask his real name, he reacts the way you do when people don’t call you ‘highness’-and Fangs Fogarty. Railwaymen by trade.”

Cheryl sneered.

“Well, I suppose that explains the excitement.”

Sweet Pea grinned, wide and mischievous.

“You know, I think it’s great what they’re doing in Russia now.”

“Oh no.” Antoinette whimpered under her breath.

“ _What_?” Cheryl demanded.

“Sure!” Sweet Pea went on. “Power to the workers. Equality for all. Soviet Russia is the future, I say. Right, Fangs?”

“That’s right,” Fangs concurred.

Cheryl’s face burned. She bared her teeth.

“You  _son of a bitch!”_

She lunged at him.

* * *

 

 **_~~St. Petersburg~~ _ ** **_Petrograd, Soviet Russia-_ ** **1921**

 

Jughead Jones spurred his horse along the city’s ancient streets. Men and women cleared the way before his muscled black stallion. He smiled a little. It was a grey day. The sort of day when the wet clouds clung to the spires and towers of the city’s buildings.

The people of Petrograd knew precisely who he was-or rather,  _what_ he was-by his grim leather jacket and the revolver at his hip. They knew to stay out of his path. That was well and good. His work was that much easier when people were afraid.

Today, he had another job to do. He didn’t know what it was yet but he prepared for something that would require every bit of his skill and strength, mental and physical. After all, his superiors had told him nothing, which meant it was something important. He took a sharp left. From every balcony and every window fluttered red banners. Hammers and sickles were stamped upon the walls whichever way one turned. The symbols of the new dawn. The heralds of the coming world.

Jughead reigned in his horse and coaxed the animal to a stop before the innocuously named House 2 on Ghorokovaya Street. It was an innocent enough structure. It was pretty, really. Rectangular, with white stone walls, and neat, symmetrical rows of windows along the façade.

But the people of the city knew better.

For these were the headquarters of the Petrograd All-Russian Extraordinary Commission. The Cheka.

Jughead lashed his horse to a post and entered the building.

“Comrade Jones,” greeted one of his colleagues inside, with a hint of fear. He saluted the man.

“Where’s the boss?”

“Waiting for you.”

Jughead nodded. He forged on, deeper into the building. He descended a set of stairs into the mansion’s basement. He was deluged by a familiar set of scents and sounds. There was the burning smell of cordite. The coppery stench of human blood. Intermittent shrieks and groans. And of course, the regular report of gunfire from the dank little cells lining the hells.

He navigated the nightmarish network of corridors and interrogation-execution chambers, saluting comrades as he went, ignoring the pitiful pleading of the condemned. They were the enemies of the revolution, after all. The foes of the people. They deserved what they got.

Jughead found ‘the Boss’ waiting in his office at the very rear of the basement complex.

“Comrade Jones!” The man at the desk, a mysterious figure whose background and true name were known to few, leaned back, his face shrouded by shadow. He was known, in frightened whispers, as the Black Hood. Second only to Felix Dzerzhinsky himself. And Jughead’s boss.

“Comrade,” Jughead greeted. He took a seat. “I assume I’m off on another assignment.”

“Astute, as usual.”

“So where’s this one taking me? Somewhere sunny, I hope.” Jughead smiled.

“Not quite. But a cultured man such as yourself should appreciate it nonetheless.”

“Oh?”

“You remember Jason Blossom, I presume?”

Jughead’s grin widened. His light eyes flickered in the dim basement light. The name 'Blossom' ignited a little fire in his chest. There was satisfaction, because he'd dealt with those blood-drenched Tsarist swine in the main. There was longing, because he hadn't finished the job. 

“I should. I killed him, after all.”

The Blossom-Wrangel clan-the result of the marriage between Penelope of the House of Wrangel, and Clifford, an English duke of the House of Blossom-had been among the staunchest supporters of Tsarist absolutism. Their hands could be seen behind the Black Hundreds militias that rampaged through Russia rooting out enemies of the throne, real and imagined, in paroxysms of blood and fire. It could be seen behind hundreds of propaganda sheets denouncing the 'international masonic conspiracy' against Russia. It could be seen behind the miserable story that was Jughead's life. When the glorious revolution had come in October, they had been high up on the list of those the new Bolshevik government had marked for elimination.

Penelope and Clifford had been rounded up quickly in Tsaritsyn and disposed of.

Their twins, the Prince Jason and the Princess Cheryl, had managed to slip out of his grasp. They fled to the north, where Jason rallied together an army of ex-Tsarist officers and their enlisted soldiers to ‘strike down the satanic scourge of revolution, in the name of God, Tsar, and Motherland’.

“That you did. And a good job you did of it, too,” the Black Hood said.

Jason had made himself quite a thorn in the side of the Soviet regime. Leading his ragtag White forces from victory to victory along the Baltic coast, he’d several times brought the Red Army to near defeat and threatened the total collapse of the northern front. Jughead remembered the hellishly cold winter nights commanding Red cavalry on the Neva, beating off wave after wave of Blossom’s soldiers. The darkest days had come in 1919, when Prince Jason, bolstered by the British navy just offshore, had marshaled some 15,000 men and marched on Petersburg. The city would have fallen, had it not been for the furious, last-ditch defense mounted by Trotsky. A defense in which Jughead, commanding his band of 500 mounted troops, had played no small part. Blossom’s army had been broken on the outskirts of the city and driven back towards the Baltic.

“Now, what you’ll have to tell me is  _why_ I should remember Jason Blossom,” Jughead said.

“You remember Cheryl, too, I presume.”

The white armies had fled in disarray over the Estonian border, but one of Jughead’s red cavalry detachments had cut off Prince Blossom from his forces, surrounding the commander and his retinue.

Jason Blossom had possessed nerves of steel. Jughead had to grant the highborn bastard that, at least. Not many men could withstand the Cheka’s brutal ‘questions’ as long as he had. He’d given them nothing, no matter how long Jughead worked. Finally, having gotten not so much as a word out of him, they’d dragged the recalcitrant prince to his death with half the bones in his body broken and half the blood spilled.

Blossom even had the temerity to spit in the chekist’s face and cry ‘long live Holy Russia!’ just before Jughead fired a Nagant revolver point blank into his head.

Well, it had been more like: “long live Holy Russ- _bang!_ ”

His demolition of Blossom's army and his execution of the prince himself had become something of a cause célèbre through Soviet Russia. Though the nature of his work necessitated his true name remain obscure, his  _nom de guerre, '_ Irenej Ivanovich', had been elevated to the pantheon of revolutionary heroes alongside the likes of Chapaev and the Kronstadt sailors. Someone had even written a popular song to celebrate the campaign:

_White was the army and black was the prince_

_who wished to restore the Tsar's throne again_

_But from the Taiga to Albion's squalls_

_The mighty Red Army is stronger than all!_

Cheryl had made good her escape once again. She’d fled into Estonia, pursued all the while by red cavalry, and from there taken into a ship into western exile.

“Of course I remember Cheryl. I almost had her, too. But…well…I had to settle for the one twin,” he said ruefully.

“Well, Comrade Jones, you have a chance to set that right.”

Now,  _that_ peaked Jughead’s interest. He leaned forward, a boyish smile on his face.

“I’m listening  _intently_ , Comrade Commander.”

“Princess Blossom has made her home in Paris. She hasn’t exactly made an effort to remain undetected. She’s there, along with half a thousand other tsarist swine who've fled the people’s justice. When she embarked at Tallinn, she took most of her brother’s effects into exile with her. We believe it more than likely that she's a part in anti-soviet subversion both within Soviet Russia and abroad. Reactionary conspirators seeking to undermine the revolution and restore the old regime. ROVS. You're familiar, of course." 

“So I pop over to Paris, reunite the princess with her brother, and come home to a ‘job well done’ from you.”

“Not so fast,” the Black Hood cautioned. “We want her alive, if possible. Her brother gave us nothing, but I’m willing to bet she’ll break easier than he. Of course, once that’s done…” He dragged a finger across his throat.

“I’ll take away her caviar for a week, and she’ll squeal,” Jughead smirked.

“If there is no other option, you are authorized to liquidate her. But if possible, bring her back to Soviet Russia breathing. If you can accomplish that, come home with a hole in your lapel, too. Because there will be an Order of the Red Banner awaiting you.”

“Comrade, the knowledge I've served the revolution is my only reward."

Both men laughed.

“I trust you can accomplish this assignment. Dzerzhinsky himself asked me to put you on the job. In short, some very important people are watching.”

Jughead stood. He patted his revolver.

“I don’t expect to fail.”

“Nor do I expect  _you_ to.”

The Black Hood retrieved a dossier.

“The most we know is that she dwells in the 17th arrondissement of the city. Everything else you’ll have to find out yourself. But…” He pulled a picture from inside the dossier. He handed it over to Jughead. “Just in case you’ve forgotten what she looks like.”

Jughead turned the photo in his hands. It showed a beautiful, smiling young woman standing against the railing of a ship. He knew she was a redhead of course, though that wasn’t clear from the black and white picture. He could tell the photograph had been cropped from a larger one. A family photo, because he could distinctly make out the shape of Jason Blossom’s shoulder and chin in the fringes. How fitting, that the prince had already been cut out. Now it was the princess’ turn.

He left House 2 smiling, whistling an old tune whose name he didn’t recall. He wound his way back through the basement bursting with tormented prisoners, up through the front doors, and back out onto the Petrograd streets.

No sense in wasting time. He’d been itching for a trip out of Russia for quite a while, anyhow. He’d take the train to Moscow, and from there head into Poland.

Europe was a damn mess. The Great War was only some three years finished, by a generous count. Cities were still broken. Roads made impassable. Corpses unburied. It would take some time to get to Paris. But he would make it. Cheryl Blossom could flee to the end of the world. But she could never outrun the bloody hand of the communist international.

The people saw Jughead’s leather jacket and pistol and knew he was a chekist. They gave him a wide berth. It was just as well. He’d always preferred to be alone. Not that he’d often had much of a choice. The son of a British seaman (the source of his decidedly un-Russian surname) growing up in the streets of Petersburg, he’d had few friends as a boy. It had owed in part to his dark predilections and in part to his odd, half-foreign status. But come the revolution, his inclinations towards the grim and bloody had served him well. And  _would_ serve him well.

He boarded the train to Moscow, enjoying the conductor’s pale-faced terror, and the very same expression on the faces of his fellow passengers. Not only did he get a bench all to himself, he got the benches ahead of and behind him as well. He never had to show a passport. He needed only his chekist’s credentials, which inevitably elicited a whimper of fear and a mumbled apology from cowed customs men.

They were right to fear. He was weird. He was a weirdo. He didn’t fit in, and he didn’t  _want_ to fit in. That was the role he’d been forced into. So he’d thrown himself into it wholeheartedly. Let him be strange. Let him be  _terrifying_. Let him be  _dread itself_ in the service of the revolution. He’d stopped counting long ago the men and women he’d killed. He would surely burn in Hell. It was a good thing that God was dead in Soviet Russia.

The train steamed southwards toward Moscow. Towards Paris. Towards an oblivious princess who hadn’t the slightest idea that her name was marked. And when Jughead Jones marked someone’s name they were not long for the world.

He pulled Cheryl’s picture from his jacket pocket and studied it again.

“ _do svidaniya,_ Cheryl, your grace!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jughead has been causing me a lot of grief this season so he gets to be the (anti) villain


	2. The Red and the White

Toni Topaz couldn’t stop thinking about Cheryl Blossom.

Particularly about that night at the Riverdale. It had taken her _and_ Fangs to pry Cheryl off of a confused Sweet Pea. The strapping railwayman just barely avoided evisceration at the hands of a woman about a third of his size. Most of the club had stopped dancing to see what all of the fuss was about. Josephine had been less than pleased to have her show stolen by the sudden outburst of violence.

Cheryl had then stormed out of the door in a tizzy.

It had taken Toni a few hours to stop laughing.

She was returning from the developer’s, her newest stack of photos in hand. Toni slid them out of their envelope. Flipping through them, she found Cheryl’s latest shoot, in which she showed off a knee-length black skirt and a pair of unbuttoned galoshes. She was commissioned to photograph plenty of models, but Cheryl’s never failed to stand out because if you looked close enough into the crisp black and white you could always see the sheer, unvarnished hatred in her eyes.

Toni didn’t think Cheryl was quite as bad as she first appeared. Sure, she was insufferable and seemed to think that her litany of noble titles still meant anything, but Toni had to be impressed by a girl who could live in Paris for a year and a half now without having the slightest bit of fun.

She met up with Sweet Pea and Fangs at the train station. The two men, coated with sweat and grime, leaned against a soiled brick wall, puffing on cheap cigarettes.

“Hey! Toni!” Sweet Pea called.

She joined her friends, and Fangs palmed a cigarette off to her.

“You done for the day?” he asked.

“Yep. Thank the lord. You two?”

Fangs puffed his smoke and shook his head. “No. Just on break. We’ll be back on the clock in five minutes.”

“No rest for the wicked, eh?” Toni quipped.

“You’re one to talk,” Sweet Pea shot back. “You make a living churning out photographs of scantily clad young women. I prefer to earn my keep by the sweat of my brow.” He grinned.

She elbowed him in the gut.

“Ah! Goddammit!”

“Aw, did I hurt the big baby?”

“Nah,” he puffed his smoke again, and then exhaled a cloud into Toni’s face. “Your Russian, though. She almost did a real number on me the other night.”

“Yeah, that’s Cheryl, all right.”

“My heart breaks for her,” Fangs shook his head. “Can’t imagine what it must be like to lose your six palaces, thousand servants, and army of bodyguards. Just awful.”

Toni chuckled.

“I don’t think she ever had _six_ palaces.”

“Too bad she gave Red Army the slip.” Sweet Pea extinguished his cigarette between two calloused fingertips in a show of bravado. Toni caught the flash of pain in his eyes. “Maybe they could’ve taught her a thing or two about humility.”

Fangs mimed firing a pistol.

“Hey,” Toni snapped. “Don’t joke about that. Come on.”

“My bad.” He said, in the tone of voice that made it clear he didn’t mean it.

A burly man in overalls poked his head out of a squat little building. “Hey! You two! Break’s over!”

“Shit. We’re back on the clock. Catch you around, Toni.”

She waved.

“I’m gonna go grab a drink later at the Riverdale, if y’all want to come along.”

“If we ain’t dog tired, we might. Tell the princess I said hi!” Sweet Pea teased.

Toni took off down the cramped Parisian streets, humming a tune to herself.

In any event, Sweet Pea and Fangs proved too tired to put in an appearance at Mantle’s club. Toni arrived at about half past seven, a little exhausted herself, but not enough to dampen her need for a drink. The place was bustling as usual. Her French, after seven years in the country, was perfect, but it was still nice to have the option of a joint where everyone spoke English. It reminded her of home, a little.

“Antoinette! Toni! My lady!” Reginald oozed, emerging from the smoke and din to throw an unwelcome arm around her shoulder.

She pried it off.

“Jesus, Reggie. Do you ever stop moving?”

“As soon as I find a reason to stay still,” he winked. “What can I get ya?”

“Just…mix me a martini, you lug.” He saluted, and returned a moment later with her drink.

She drank quietly for an hour, half-watching the comedian on stage doing a fair impression of Woodrow Wilson.

“The world is safe for democracy! Except perhaps in Eastern Europe! And the Near East! And Russia! And the _Far East_! Ah well, I gave it my best!”

The audience laughed.

Toni sipped her drink. She’d been in Paris for almost five years, now. Of course, when she arrived it had been far from the festival of light and gaiety it was now. It had been a city in the perpetual grip dread and apprehension. Just miles beyond the walls, the French army fought an eternal, fruitless battle with the indefatigable soldiers of the German Reich, killing tens of thousands upon thousands of theirs and the enemies for a few inches of ground. All the while, the Kaiser's troops rained their bombs and artillery onto the City of Lovers with Teutonic precision. One awful Sunday night, she'd been unlucky enough to witness a German shell score a direct hit on a church packed full of worshippers. She would never ever forget the screams, the shattering stone, or the crackling flames.

And then suddenly it was all over. Revelers thronged the streets to celebrate victory. The colorful flags of the Allies fluttered from every spire and balcony. And then all anyone wanted was to  _forget._ To drown the memory of those awful war years in a sea of music and drink and carnal pleasures. It was so strange to see this flowering of culture and art in the wake of such slaughter. But she supposed that’s what it was all about. The desperate need to forget. To prove that humanity was capable of more than wanton butchery.

She hardly noticed Veronica Lodge saunter up to her. Toni didn’t know the young lady, except by name. She knew Veronica was the daughter of a shady New York robber baron, here to paint Paris red. She knew Veronica could buy her and everything she’d ever owned with pocket change.

The raven-haired socialite slid into the seat next to her.

“Hi. Antoinette Topaz, right?”

Toni smiled politely.

“Just Toni.”

“Ah, Toni, then. I’m Ronnie, to my friends. Wait until we get to know each other a little better, though.” Veronica winked.

“So what’s going on, Ronnie?”

Veronica smiled.

“You’re a photographer, right?”

“Yeah. Models, mostly.”

“What’s that like?”

Toni laughed dryly.

“I take pictures of good-looking men and women in the newest dress or waistcoat and hope the firm that's bought me for the moment turns a profit.”

“Women like Cheryl Blossom?” Veronica sprung the question.

“Sorry?”

“One of the women you photograph is Cheryl Blossom, isn’t it?”

“Among others.” Toni paused. “Well, say, you were here with her last night, weren’t you?”

Veronica shrugged.

“Yeah. We’re friends. Or acquaintances, at least. She talks about you a lot. Or your work together, at least.”

“All glowing praise, I’m sure.”

Both women laughed. 

“But listen, actually, I was wondering if I could ask a favor of you.”

Toni raised an eyebrow. She didn’t go in for favors, especially when they were asked by people she hardly knew. Favors were a messy game.

“Depends. What’s the favor?”

Veronica giggled awkwardly. Her face was smoky and surreal in the dim, stuffy air of the club.

“Well, this is going to sound a little weird. I have a friend, see, who shoots motion pictures. Real up and coming. He likes to think he’s coming for D. W Griffith’s crown.”

“Who’s your friend?”

“He’s a bit theatrical. He probably doesn’t want me giving away his name to people in bars. But he caught sight of a few pictures you took of Cheryl and…well…now he’s enamored and asking me if I wouldn’t try and get her to accept a role in his newest picture.”

Toni allowed a moment of silence to pass. Then she laughed heartily. She shook her head, as if Veronica had told a real knee-slapper. If only this girl knew what a mad request she was making.

“It’s an absolute battle getting her into the studio for photograph sessions every week. I’ve shot film before. It’s much harder than modeling. If you think you’re _ever_ getting her in front of a film camera, you’re living in a dream world. Knowing her, she probably thinks moving pictures are a ‘child’s light show fit only for the rabble’. Or something like that.”

Veronica sighed.

“Yeah, I kind of thought that might be the case. Still, would you at least broach the idea to her?”

“Why don’t you ask her yourself, if you two are friends?”

“She might be more receptive if she heard it from someone she has a _professional_ relationship with than from _me_. That was my line of thinking, anyway.”

“It’s a big ‘might’, Veronica.” She thought for a momnt. Then Toni pictured the look that would come over Cheryl’s face when she heard the proposal. She smiled involuntarily. “Look, I’ll spring the idea on her. I’m telling you, though, you’ve got a better chance of sprouting wings.”

Veronica beamed.

“Great!” She whipped out a scrap of paper, scribbled something down, and handed it over to Toni. “Here’s a number you can call when you get her answer. Whatever it is.”

The New Yorker stood, patted Toni on the shoulder, and took her leave. Toni finished her drink. Cheryl Blossom, the motion picture actress. _There_ was a laugh.

Cheryl certainly had the looks for the screen, what with her hourglass figure, full lips, and long, slender legs, but Toni had no idea whether she had a mite of acting ability. She doubted classes in drama were part and parcel of a Russian noblewoman's education.

But then again, maybe they were. What did she know?

* * *

Jughead arrived in Paris a week after departing from Petrograd.

He’d never been this far west before. He’d marched into Poland with the Red Army two years ago. He’d hunted White Army officers in Istanbul and Berlin. But he’d never been to France before.

The city of light towered over him. He was overwhelmed. Here was the hearth of European culture. It was here the modern world was born from the smoke and ashes of the Bastille. It was here that the Communards raised their red banners and trumpeted the first strains of the _Internationale_. This was the capital of the world. 

But of course he couldn’t distract himself with such flights of fancy. He was here to carry out an assignment.

He produced his just-purchased street map of the city. The 17th arrondissement. That was his destination. He was glad to find he was not particularly conspicuous in his leather jacket. Scores of the workmen and street toughs milling about dressed in the same manner.

Jughead stepped up to the curb and hailed a cab.

“Where to, friend?” asked the cab driver in French.

Jughead’s French was less than perfect, though foreign languages were of paramount importance in his line of work. He responded, slowly: “The 17th arrondissement.”

“Where in the 17th arrondissiment?”

“Just take me there.”

The cab rumbled to life and started off.

“You are not French, are you?” the cab driver ventured.

Jughead, hardly in the mood for conversation, grumbled.

“No, I’m not. How could you tell?”

The driver didn’t catch his sarcasm.

“Your accent! No offense, _monsieur_ , but it is far from perfect.”

“We all have to start somewhere.” Jughead reached into his bag and extracted a dog-eared copy of _The Hound of the Baskervilles_. He’d found it on a dead Royal marine in Archangelsk two years ago. That was how he got a lot of his books these days. Free was always good.

“Yes, yes! Well, don’t worry, friend. I don’t speak any other language but French, so I can hardly judge.” The talkative cabbie didn’t seem capable of taking a hint. “So where are you from, _monsieur_?”

“Russia.” He saw little reason to lie.

“Ah! You’ll find plenty of your countrymen here! Paris is _full_ of Russians nowadays.”

“I’m counting on it.”

“Yes, yes. After that dreadful revolution, they came here in droves. Dukes, counts, generals of the White Army. I recall there was some business with a Russian princess at the Riverdale Club the other night. A bit of a fiasco.”

That got Jughead’s attention. He set down the adventures of Sherlock Holmes for a moment and leaned forward.

“Riverdale Club? What’s that?”

“Oh, one of those jazz clubs that have popped up all over the city. Full of American rascals and godless young Parisians.” The cabbie laughed. “A young gentleman like yourself ought to enjoy it.”

“I’m not much of a dancer.”

The cabbie nodded. They trundled over the Pont de Passy. The Seine rippled beneath them. He looked down into the murky water. Private automobiles, other cabs, and horse-drawn buggies passed them by. Hooves clicked against the cobblestones and engines hummed. The old world clashed with the new.

“Well! Here we are! The 17th arrondissement. “You weren’t very particular…”

Jughead shook his head, eager to be out of the cab.

“Just leave me anywhere.”

The cab skidded to a halt. Jughead jammed a few francs into the man’s expectant hand. Then he hopped out of the car and strode away down the street.

“Have a nice day!” the cabbie called after him.

He didn’t respond.

He kept his head low as he walked. He had neither any leads nor any idea where he might find some. Well, he had the name of a club, tenuously connected with ‘a Russian princess’. That was all.

But he didn’t worry. There was a reason that he’d ascended the ranks of the Cheka so quickly. He was resourceful. It was a skill he had to develop. The streets of St. Petersburg had made a cruel and unforgiving environment for a young boy. Particularly one forced to fend not only for himself but also for his little sister during those long months and years their father spent at sea. He might have not existed at all, while Jughead keenly searched out odd jobs and scraps of bread, or charity if they were lucky.

All the while, the royals danced.

Back then he’d found shelter, food, and even a friend or two here or there. He could find this girl.

The streets and the buildings turned red in the light of a dying Parisian sun. It was too bad he didn’t have time for a sunset over the Seine. He walked nowhere in particular, guided by that mysterious sense that always ferreted out his quarry in the end. Young men and women wearing crisp, commercial smiles beckoned him from porticos and alleyways.

“ _Tu viens, monsieur? Tu viens?”_

He waved them away. No stomach for any of that.

It was nearly dark when he turned a corner and found himself standing before an elegant boutique advertising the latest in Parisian fashion. A great display window proudly presented shapely mannequins in knee-length skirts and prints of lovelier human models. Something compelled him to stop and look. He perused the selections, feeling a little silly.

Jughead’s eyes fell on one photograph. A large snapshot of a very beautiful young woman in a black evening gown draped in pearls and gemstones. He studied her. For a moment, he thought it might be a trick of the fading sun. The high cheekbones. The full lips. No. It was she! Surely! His intuition was proven once again. He clenched a fist in victory, and stepped inside the boutique.

The young man at the shop counter raised his head to greet him, throwing on an affected cheer for the newcomer.

“Welcome, welcome, _monsieur_!”

Jughead smiled. He adjusted the collar of his jacket.

“Good evening," he replied.

“I saw you perusing the window out there,” the young man said, slyly. “Shopping for a girlfriend?”

“Something like that.”

The young man nodded.

“What does she like?”

“I was wondering about this dress, actually.” The lad jumped out from behind the counter to help this new customer. Jughead directs him to the photograph in the window. “This black dress. Do you have it in stock?”

“Ah, yes! Of course! Just in! What is your girl’s size?”

Jughead didn’t answer.

“You know, the model in this picture. I know that isn’t your job, but do you happen to know who she is? She looks very…familiar.”

The young man smiled.

“It’s funny you should ask. Normally, I’d have no idea at all. But this girl, I know. She’s Russian nobility, of some sort or another. One of the _émigrés_ that came over fleeing the Bolsheviks. Ah! I forget her name. She lives in this arrondissement, you know. I’ve seen her now and again. Never travels without her retainers, of course.”

“Interesting. Very interesting.”

“I might not have remembered, except that she was involved in some ruckus down at the Riverdale Club a few nights back. Funny, eh? A princess in a place like that.”

“Riverdale Club, what’s that?” he asked.

“A little jazz club.”

“Funny, all right. Where?” For a moment, he wondered if he should be so direct about his business. But this man would forget him the moment he strolled out of the door.

“Ah, I don’t remember exactly. Near the Boulevard Suchet. Not far from the Bois de Boulogne. You’ll have to ask around. Sorry.”

Jughead nodded.

“That’s fine. Thank you for your help.” He turned around and stepped out of the door.

“ _Monsieur!_ The dress!”

“I’ll be back for it.”

He wouldn’t, of course.

Consulting his tourist’s map again, he meandered in the general direction of the Bois de Boulougne Park, asking directions from flappers, vagrants, and street-sweepers all the while. Some knew the place. Most didn’t. But slowly, the tide of humanity pushed him in the right direction. He felt good. It was his second day in the city (less than forty-eight hours, really), and already he’d all but pinpointed his target. This might be easier than expected. He did not fail.

He rounded an avenue and found himself confronted by a young gang of Parisian youths playing kick the can. They hustled along the edge of the road, avoiding the horses and cars that swept by. Jughead stopped, and for a strange moment, had the intense sensation he was looking through a window into the past. That he was staring at himself only a decade ago. He shook it off and asked directions. The boys pointed him through an alley and up the next street.

Jughead followed their advice and soon enough found himself standing before a glittering sign announcing **THE RIVERDALE CLUB** in English. The soothing sounds of an American jazz band drifted out through the open door on curling fingers of smoke and the scent of alcohol.

He entered. A man on stage blew a trumpet. Conversations in French, English, and a few other languages assailed him on all sides. He ordered a drink and pondered his next step. Nothing to do but start talking.

The chekist drifted lazily through the massed crowd. He said hello and smiled and laughed and flirted. He commented on the skill of the performer on stage. He was careful to only pretend to drink. It wouldn’t do to have alcohol dull his senses. No one seemed to notice that his glass never got any lower.

Four hours after arriving, he was seated at a corner table, chatting up a young _literatus_ , discussing poets and song.

“I _adore_ Jack London,” his conversation partner gushed.

“You’ve the read _The Iron Heel_?” Jughead asked.

“Of course! Fantastic book! Frightening, of course.”

“Hopeful ending, though," Jughead replied.  “Especially now, with what’s happening in Soviet Russia. It gives you hope for the Brotherhood of Man. Just like Mr. London predicted.”

“Yes! The Soviet experiment _is_ exciting. If only it survives the next ten years,” the young man said.

“Progress always meets opposition,” Jughead responded. “In 1789, it looked like the feudal kings would reign forever. It was Paris that changed all that, of course.”

“You’re quite right.”

“Now if only France wouldn't give sanctuary to every White Russian prince and general looking to oppose that progress..."

“Funny you should mention Russian _émigrés_. Just the other night, we had a Russian princess right here.”

“Really?” Jughead feigned surprise.

“She didn’t stay long. Got into a scrap with some gentleman about…something.”

“A _scrap_ is one way of putting it.” A great mountain of a man in a leather workman’s jacket stood up three tables away and lumbered over. “She almost clawed my damn eyes out.”

Jughead immediately forgot about his prior conversation partner and turned his attention on the new man.

“What happened?” he asked.

The big fellow snorted. “She was acting like…well, like a princess. So I made a little joke and the next thing I knew she was on top of my going for my throat.”

Jughead laughed. _There it was_. Things were moving along quite nicely.

“I have a feeling you were more than a match.”

“Think again.” The big man’s companion stood up and joined them. “If I hadn’t been there, she would have beaten you bloody, Sweet Pea.”

The big man, apparently called Sweet Pea, punched his friend in the arm with some force.

“Shut it, Fangs.”

“And how’d the… _altercation_ start?” Jughead asked.

Sweet Pea shook his head.

“Like I said. All I did was make a little joke about the revolution. I guess their type aren't use to people doing anything other than kissing their asses.”

“Like your run of the mill rich weren’t bad enough. Now Paris is full of literal royalty.” Fangs said in disgust.

Jughead nodded. Their hostility toward that ‘literal royalty’ was hardly disguised. That was good. Recruiting allies in the field was always better than bringing them with you. Of course, he’d have to work them quite a bit before he could trust them with anything. “I’ve seen a lot of the world,” Jughead said, shaking his head. “I can tell you, the rich are the same all over.”

“Don’t we know,” Sweet Pea said.

The young man who loved Jack London, sensing he’d been locked out of the conversation, departed.

Sweet Pea and fangs sat down in his place.

“So what’s your name, huh?”

Jughead extended his hand.

“Jughead Jones.”

Fangs smiled. “Jughead, huh? Well, I guess we can’t be ones to talk.”

All three men laughed.

“So where are you from, Jughead Jones? You speak English fine, but you sure as hell aren’t English.”

That was true. His English was odd. His father had been from Glasgow, but growing up in northern Russia added some interesting inflections to his speech. It was rare someone could identify him properly.

He decided it was prudent to lie now.

“Latvia, actually. I’m a sailor.” That wasn’t an _utter_ lie. He’d been to Lavia before. True, it had been two years ago, when he’d marched in with the Red Army, but still. Plus, he was pretty sure he had a Latvian great-grandmother on his mother's side or something.

“Latvia, huh? We’re from Alabama. We _were_ sailors, for a while.”

“And now?”

“Railwaymen. Less fun, but I haven’t had to sail through a typhoon in a year or two. It’s a trade off.”

Jughead filed that away. _Railwaymen._

“How’d you get to France?” Jughead asked.

“We came over with the US Army. 1918. Fought in Belleau Wood, never went home.”

“So you’re soldiers?” That might be useful, too.

Sweet Pea made a disgusted face.

“ _Were_. I’m starting to regret shooting those poor German sons of bitches so some rich bastards could redraw a map.”

Jughead raised his drink.

“Amen. Let me buy you boys a round. Let’s drink to that.”

“All right!”

They waved over a server and Jughead slapped down a few centimes to pay for a few drinks.

He liked the two men well enough. They were similar to him, in some ways. Grew up poor. Did what they had to do to get by. He forgot his determination to avoid any real drink, and found himself just a little under the influence of strong Parisian wine and beer an hour or two later.

“So,” he mumbled, remembering his mission. “How is it you got talking to a princess the other night, anyway.”

Fangs laughed.

“Well, we’ve got this friend. Toni. She’s a photographer. She takes pictures of models. You know, dresses and skirts. Well, wouldn’t you know it; our friend the princess is one of her subjects. Imagine that, her having to work for a living like the rest of us.”

“I can’t imagine that’s easy on her ego,” Jughead laughed.

“Hell no!” Sweet Pea roared.

The chekist decided not to press any further for the night. He’d extracted enough information for now. He could question them further later on. In fact, Jughead had a feeling they’d freely divulge whatever he wants to know after another night or two of carousal.

He decided to steer the conversation toward friendly, innocuous topics.

“Where’d you get that jacket?” Fangs asked, pointing to Jughead’s crisp leather jacket. It was nicer than the worn, tattered ones the two railwaymen wore.

“Oh. I picked it up in a port on the Black Sea. Odessa, I think.” That wasn’t a lie. He _had_ gotten t it in Odessa.

“It’s nice.”

“I’ve found all sorts of nice things on my travels. More nasty than nice but…”

Sweet Pea elbowed his friend.

“You remember Hong Kong?”

“Hell yes.”

“Hey Jughead, you want to talk about the nice things you find while sailing the world? Let me tell you a story about me, Fangs, the Royal Navy, and a few crates worth of opium.”

* * *

 Elizabeta ‘Betty’ Cooper sat at the dining room table. Archibald ‘Archie’ Andrews stared, awed, into a stereoscope, methodically switching out picture after picture. Kevin Keller, having laid his rifle against the wall, and his pistol on the table, absentmindedly spun a bullet on the tabletop.

“Archie, what are you looking at through that stereoscope?” Kevin teased. “Is it half-naked women, again?”

“It’s pictures of Egypt, Kevin, for God’s sake.”

Kevin chuckled.

Betty busied herself sewing shut a hole in one of Cheryl’s favorite shawls. If she was lucky, she could sew it up tight enough her mistress would never notice.

“Shouldn’t she be up by now?” Betty asked. “She has to go to the studio today.”

Kevin snorted.

“ _You_ want to be the one to wake her up?”

Terror struck Archie and Betty at the thought.

“What time is it?” Archie asked.

Kevin craned his head around.

“Almost half past nine.”

“Oh, no.”

“Okay,” Betty said. “Tell you lads what. We’ll do a lottery.” She tore a shred of her sample cloth into three pieces, and punched a hole through the center of one with her needle. “Whoever gets the one with the hole has to go wake her up.”

“Where’s Ethel?” Kevin asked.

“Nice try, Keller. She’s out at the market.”

Betty crumpled up the three bits of cloth and held out her hand. The two men reached out, practically shaking with fear, and picked their pieces carefully.

Betty unfolded hers slowly. No hole. She breathed a sigh of relief.

Archie unfolded his. Much slower. No hole.

Kevin didn’t even bother to unfold his.

“Son of a _bitch_!”

Archie shrugged. “Spot of bad luck, Kevin.”

Kevin groaned, stood, and marched slowly up the stairs, as if to the gallows. “She doesn’t pay us enough,” he moaned.

They watched him go; mostly happy it was him and not them.

In truth, Cheryl probably didn’t pay them enough. But despite her temper, that wasn’t really her fault. The house was filled with jewels and priceless icons they’d brought over from Russia in their hurried flight. But each one of those had some long, storied history. They were precious to her, and she couldn’t bear to sell any of them. Really, her four-person retinue would also be pained to see a single brooch go. If they sold just a few of the solid gold crucifixes from St. Petersburg they would all be set for a life. But those shiny bits of metal were all they had left of their homeland.

So they had to subsist, all of them, on the money Cheryl made modeling. Most of the servants had deserted a long time ago. Some had joined the revolutionaries. Others had absconded during the journey to France. They were all that remained. Because they, too, had nothing else.

“Do you ever think about it?” Betty asked.

“What?” Archie said.

“Leaving. Trying to find work somewhere else.”

He was silent for a while.

“No. We’ve been with them so long. We can’t desert now.”

“It has been a while, hasn’t it?” Betty smiled ruefully.

“Remember when we first got the jobs?” Archie asked, wistful. He shook his head and chuckled a little.

“I wouldn’t say I _got_ the job. When your mother already works in the estate, it’s more of ‘growing into the job’.”

She thought of her mother, the imperious English lady in waiting to the Blossom family. Unlike Alice Cooper, Betty had never quite grown to hate their employers. Clifford and Penelope were odious, but she felt pity more than anything else for Cheryl and Jason. She’d even shed a few tears upon the news of Jason’s capture by the Reds. And Cheryl…perhaps that was why she was still here.

“Yeah. You got _me_ the job at their estate, though. Remember that? My father asked ‘what are you even gonna do there, Arch?’ And then you said ‘actually…I think they just got rid of their driver.’”

“Remember how angry Jughead was?” Betty said, and the smile vanished from her face.

Archie laughed sadly.

“How could I forgot? ‘You’re going to _work_ for those parasites?’” He snapped, in imitation of the dark-haired young boy he’d once known. “I’m sure he got over it.” He said, more to himself than Betty.

“How would we know?” Betty asked, her tone almost self-accusatory. “We hardly ever saw him again after that.”

“Well, we couldn’t go back into the city that often,” Archie rationalized.

“No. I suppose not.”

The Blossom estate sat a few miles outside St. Petersburg, though the family owned substantial amounts of property (including the district in which they, and Jughead, had lived) within the city itself. Once Archie and Betty had moved out there, they’d seen little of their friend.

“I wonder how he’s doing, now.” Archie said.

Betty ignored the sad truth that, in all likelihood, he _wasn’t_ doing. That, in all likelihood, he’d perished in the final stages of the Great War, or else in the civil conflict that wracked Russia in its wake, or in the great famine that seized the nation soon after that.

“I’m sure he’s okay. He’s probably still in St. Petersburg. He was always resourceful, remember.”

“Yeah. He was, wasn’t he?”

“I miss him sometimes, though.”

Archie picked at a loose splinter of wood at the edge of the table.

“So do I.”


	3. The Silver Screen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably an unnecessary disclaimer (honestly though who knows), but I feel like I should clarify that this story's sympathetic portrayal of certain members of the Russian nobility is not an endorsement of Tsarist autocracy or the White Armies. I do not believe in the Divine Right of Kings. La Liberté ou la Mort, down with the crowned brigands and all that. Thanks for coming to my TED talk.

Cheryl Blossom wasn’t asleep. She’d been awake since about the fourth hour of the previous night, when she’d been jolted from a horrid nightmare, sheets drenched in sweat.

This one had been worse than usual. So  _vivid_. She’d watched, helpless, a red-hot revolver to her head, as a gang of laughing chekists slowly tortured her brother to death. There had been so much blood. So much screaming. So much pain. 

And it had been so  _real_.

She wasn’t asleep, so she wasn’t all that annoyed when Kevin Keller knocked at her door to ‘wake her up’.

The young man was visibly relieved when she stepped out of her room without raising her voice. 

“Good morning, highness.” Kevin said.

“Good morning.” She sighed, trudging off towards the bath.

“Uh…Ethel’s still at the market, so I took the liberty of drawing your bath for you. I hope it’s to your liking?”

“That’s fine.” She replied, the mild reaction thoroughly shocking her guard. 

Once she finished her bath, Cheryl dressed plainly and descended the grand staircase to find Archibald and Elizabeta waiting, arms behind their backs, ramrod straight.

“Highness.” They intoned in unison.

“Come on.” She urged. “Or I’ll be late to debase myself for money.”

The drive to the studio was quiet. Archibald didn’t even try to crack his usual bad joke about the Parisian policemen bustling around on their bikes looking like birds.

The studio itself was a modest, limestone two-story building constructed in a very modern art deco style. Cheryl always thought the tall glass windows were a little too tall.

Archibald parked the car around the back. Cheryl stepped out and headed inside. As she left, she heard her chauffeur and lady in waiting speaking. Apparently, they believd her out of earshot.

“At least she’s not angry today.” Archibald said quietly.

“No.” Betty said. “She’s just sad.”

Cheryl met Antoinette inside. The American was lugging a box of film into the back room when she noticed her model enter.

“Oh. Hey. Top of the morning to you, princess.”

“So, what fresh hell do you have in store for me today?” Cheryl uncharacteristically failed to admonish her for the sarcastic ‘princess’.

Antoinette urged her into the studio proper.

“Nothing too bad, today. Some Belgian manufacturer wants you in a few of their latest hats. There are also some…” She digs a piece of paper out of her pocket and squints at the tiny typeface. “What does this say, boots? Yeah. Boots. Stuff’s already in the changing room.”

Cheryl nodded and changed. She hated the hat. It was a ridiculous, lopsided, feathery thing that looked like it belonged fifteen years in the past. She put it on anyway, because it was her job.

She strutted out of the room in her awful hat. Antoinette busily readied the Kodak camera. 

“I take back what I said the last time.” Cheryl said. “This is by far the worst thing you’ve ever put me in.”

“You say that quite literally every time.”

“But this time it’s true.”

Antoinette looked up and smiled. As much as she despised this, Cheryl could always tell that Antoinette truly enjoyed her work. There was a certain enthusiasm and life in the way she handled the camera. In a strange sort of way, it made her feel a little better to know they weren’t  _both_ absolutely miserable.

“I’ll admit, I thought the hat looked awful too, at first. But it looks okay on you.”

“Oh, just take the damn pictures. How do you want me to pose for this one?”

“Straight ahead, hands on hips is fine. And don’t worry, you don’t have to smile for this one.”

“A ray of mercy.”

“Between you and me, I really don’t like making my subjects smile. Smiles only really work when they’re genuine. Don’t you think?”

Cheryl didn’t respond. Instead she muttered: “take the damn picture.” Through gritted teeth.

Anoinette dutifully snapped two photos. Then swore.

“Oh, damn.” The photographer groaned. She got to fiddling with the inscrutable black box that was the camera.

“What?” Cheryl demanded, terrified there was some problem that would drag this out even longer than usual.

“Hold on. The camera’s…being difficult.”

Cheryl sighed and relaxed her body.

“Of course it is.”

Antoinette worked on the camera, surely in deep concentration, though to Cheryl it looked more like she was clicking and pressing random buttons. The princess tapped her toe impatiently. Seconds passed, then minutes. She was on the verge of another outburst when Antoinette expertly anticipated and cut her off. 

“So, tell me about Russia.”

“What?”

“Sure. You’re always saying you want to go home, so tell me about it. It must have been pretty great, right?”

How  _dare_ this woman assume that she would speak to  _her_ of all people about such a dark, painful chapter in her life?

Much to her own surprise, she found herself doing just that.

“It was  _lovely_.” Cheryl sighed. “Before the revolution. It seems…a little like a dream, now. We had a mansion just outside Piter. You should have seen it. Everything…glittered. I didn’t appreciate it enough. I'd do anything at all if it meant I got to see St. Petersburg just one more time. The way it was back then.” Tears sprung to her eyes. “Take one more boat ride down the Neva. See my family-“ Her throat constricted. She noticed Antoinette had stopped working on the camera. Her face was serious, and soft, her eyes dark and sympathetic.

“Is there any chance you will?”

“What?”

“Is there any chance that you’ll see your family again?”

The question hurt.

“No. There’s not. Never.”

“I’m sorry.” Antoinette paused. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

Cheryl shook her head. Maybe it was the genuine sympathy in her voice, but she suddenly didn’t feel so angry.

“Forget it. Is that damn camera fixed yet?”

“Almost.” Antoinette responded, dragging out the ‘A’.

“Odd. You’re usually pretty competent, too.”

The photographer lifted her head and smiled.

“Was that a  _compliment_?”

“No. Fix the camera.”

“Hey, listen, there’s something I’ve been meaning to bring up. Your friend Veronica Lodge came up to me at the club the other day.”

“I don’t have any  _friends_ here. Certainly not Lodge.”

“Alright, your  _acquaintance_ , then.  _Anyway_ , she came up to me with a proposition.” Antoinette went on. Cheryl quirked an eyebrow, and her ruby lips twisted into an odd shape. “Not  _that_ sort of proposition.” The photographer clarified, laughing. Cheryl suddenly felt a bit embarrassed. “It was about you. A career opportunity, actually.”

“A  _career_ opportunity? What does she want to do, put me to work on an assembly line somewhere?”

“No.” Antoinette smiled, like she had a very funny secret to share. Cheryl braced herself. “A movie, actually. Apparently, there’s a part with your name written on it somewhere.”

Cheryl was silent for a moment. Then she laughed.

“A  _movie_? You mean those awful motion picture lightshows? Does she think I’m some five-cent Parisian actress?”

“I don’t think she does. I  _did_ tell her you’d say no.”

“Well, then I suppose you’re getting to know me.”

“Can’t really help it, with this job. Oh hey, look at that, camera’s fixed.” Antoinette bent down behind the Kodak. “I  _will_ say, though. It would pay a hell of a lot better than this. You probably wouldn’t have to put on a stupid hat for another year, at least.” That caught Cheryl’s attention. “I guess I’ll have to call Lodge and give her the bad news. Now, hands on hips, facing forward, let’s get this over with.”

_Flash!_

* * *

 

Cheryl returned home, thinking intently about Veronica’s proposition. She’d have to talk to the woman herself and see what possessed her to make such a mad proposition in the first place.

Still, it was interesting. If it would really pay enough that she wouldn’t have to work again for a year…

To her surprise, she found herself feeling a slight sense of discomfort at the thought of such a change. She  _hated_ having to pose for those ridiculous, degrading photos. But a part of her had become accustomed to it. She had only just now, after those years of instability, panic, and exile, began to reestablish some sense of stability to her life. And she was getting used to Antoinette.

A part of her was becoming accustomed to it.

“Betty, let me ask you something.” Cheryl said, as they turned the last corner before her house. She saw the shock in Betty’s eyes at the use of her nickname.

“Yes?”

“Do you like motion pictures?”

“Is that a trick question?”

“No.”

“They’re fine. I’ve seen some entertaining pictures.”

Cheryl nodded.

“And you, Archie?”

Her chauffeur nearly crashed the car in the shock of not being addressed as ‘Archibald’.

“Motion pictures, highness?”

“Sure. Do you like them?”

“Certainly. I saw a very nice movie called  _2000 Leagues Under the Sea._ ”

Cheryl nodded again.

“Why do you ask?” Betty inquired.

They pulled up to Cheryl’s townhouse and filed out of the car.

“Well, I was offered a  _part_ in a motion picture.” Cheryl said.

“Really?” Betty said, evidently quite bemused. “That’s ducky!”

“I really wish you wouldn’t use those awful Americanisms, Elizabeta.”

“Sorry.”

“What picture?” Archie asked, slamming shut the driver’s door and dusting off his jacket with his chauffeur’s hat.

“I’m not sure yet. I have to find that out.”

“Well, are you going to take the part?” Betty asked.

“I doubt it. But…we’ll see.” She said with a flourish. At the door, she posed Kevin the same question to Kevin

“A  _movie_?” The guardsman’s eyes lit up. He suppressed a very obvious smile. “Of  _course_ you should take the part!” He quickly tempered his excitement and regained his soldierly composure. “That is…if it please your highness.”

Cheryl rolled her eyes. She shrank away into the sitting room, in front of the big Diocletian window. She reached into her dress and extracted the little silver Byzantine cross she kept always around her neck. Identical to the one he always wore himself; Jason had given it to her just before he went off to fight at Lutsk. “So I, and God, will always be with you.” Studded with precious stones, it was likely the most valuable treasure in her possession. She would die before parting with it.

She offered one of her rare prayers. Less common with each passing day.  _What shall I do_? Maybe this time she would receive an answer. Cheryl had attended exactly three motion pictures in her life. They were a fad. A silly product of a world accustomed to too much cheap luxury. Very base.

Still, how much money did Veronica  _mean_?

An hour later, Cheryl opened the sitting room door and called out: “Ethel! Bring me the telephone!”

She placed a single phone call.

“Veronica? Pay me a visit if you have the time. Even if you don’t, as a matter of fact.”

* * *

Veronica Lodge dropped by a few hours later, strutting out of a sleek Studebaker and sashaying up the front steps, a long cigarette dangling between two lacquered fingernails. She pulled back the heavy knocker and let it fall against the ponderous oaken door with a thunderous clang. A mere second passed, and the door swung open. Veronica found herself face to face with the handsome, heavily armed young man she knew by now was Cheryl’s personal guard. His name was Keller or something, and his father had been an American working as a Gendarme in Russia before the revolution, or something like that. She could hardly keep these people’s wild, colorful, tragic back stories straight.

“Good evening, Veronica.” The young man greeted with a smile. She’d long ago told him to dispense with the ‘miss’ and the ‘madam’. He leaned in. “And yes, I’m just as surprised as you that she actually  _asked_ you to drop by, for once.” He stepped aside to allow her entry into the house. She patted him on the shoulder.

Inside, Veronica encountered Cheryl’s diminutive household staff: the chauffeur, Andrews, the lady in waiting, Cooper, and the live in maid…something Dutch. She sauntered over Andrews, a tall, broad-shouldered, handsome ginger, and touched him lightly on the arm. His face flushed.

“Good evening.” He sputtered.

“And good evening to you,  _too_.” She purred.

The blonde, Elizabeta, suppressed a smile.

“Veronica, heel!”

All heads turned at once to find Cheryl standing at the top of the staircase. Veronica, in the year or so she’d known her, was always reminded of a phantom. She’d never known someone could still have blood in their veins and yet be so pale. Not that it made her any less lovely.

They repaired to the sitting room, where the Dutch maid had stoked a gentle fire in the hearth. Cheryl poured them two glasses of Tokay. She consumed hers slowly, and with finesse, while Veronica knocked back three very quickly.

“So. Against all expectations and in a strong exception to your usual behavior, you’ve invited me here to discuss…”

Cheryl groaned.

“Your proposal. Which you were apparently too cowardly to make to my face.”

“It was a tactful decision. It worked, didn’t it?”

“We’ll see.”

“So, do you want to hear more?”

“If you insist.”

Veronica leaned forward, expertly cradling her glass of wine in hand, a smile flickering in the firelight.

“Well, I have a friend who owns a motion picture studio. Technically, I guess his  _father_ does, but for all intents and purposes it’s his.”

“American?”

“Eh, half. His mother’s American, his father French. He likes to split his time. But he considers himself a sophisticate so you can usually find him about Paris. He’s a bit of a prig, but so are most folks around here.”

“Name?”

“St. Clair.”

“I’ve never heard the name.”

Veronica laughed. “You say that a lot, and sometimes I wonder if it’s just because you don’t want to give anyone the satisfaction of admitting they’re famous.”

“Moving on.”

“Alright, alright. Anyway, he runs Greenwich Pictures. They’ve put out a few successful features in the past decade or so. They got into the game kind of early, you know.”

“What pictures have they put out? Maybe I’ve heard of some.”

Veronica raised an eyebrow.

“We both know you’ll lie and say you haven’t.”

Cheryl couldn’t help but laugh a little bit.

“So, I’ve never met this St. Clair, and I’ve never stooped to acting in my life. Where exactly does he get the notion that I’d be a good fit for whatever nonsense he's putting on?”

“Well, he’s seen a few of your pictures in the city. In boutiques and whatnot. Apparently, he’s smitten. Thinks you must be the loveliest woman in Paris. And let’s face it, you aren’t  _bad_ looking.”

“Let’s cut to the bone of the matter, shall we? What’s he offering? Salary-wise.”

“A lot more than you make now.”

“That’s not an answer.” Cheryl said, leaning back in her seat and sipping her Tokay.

“Okay. He told me he’d be willing to offer $250 a week. As a baseline for negotiations.”

That got her attention. She did some quick calculations. That was more than $13,000 for a year. Of course, she wouldn’t be working for an entire year (presumably) but still, that was good. She wouldn’t have to worry about modeling for a long, long time.

“Really?”

“Really.” Veronica nodded. “If I may be so bold, it’d be pretty stupid not to take up that offer.”

Maybe that was so. It was a nice thought, that much money. Then she had another thought. A dark one. A grim one that chilled her and threw the reality of her life into sharp relief.

“I can’t.”

“Oh, come on.”

“No, I can’t.”

“Why not?”

Cheryl sighed. She really didn’t want to discuss it. Least of all with Veronica. But her tongue was loosening lately. For some reason.

“I try to keep a relatively low profile.”

Veronica snorted.

“You rent out your likeness to dressmakers, how…is that keeping a low profile?”

“Well, I don’t rent them my  _name_.”

“Alright, fine. Why exactly do you need to keep a low profile? Your personality isn't exactly conducive to modesty. We both know it's true, so don't bother taking offense.”

She didn't. Instead she asked: “Do you know what the Cheka is?”

“Fashion agency?”

“That’s not funny.”

“Okay. No, then. I don't know.”

“Lenin’s agents. They’re the ones that killed...”

“Oh…”

“I don’t want them to hunt me here. I don’t want to end up with a chekist bullet in my head like…” She couldn’t finish the sentence, so she didn’t. “There’s a reason I don’t much mingle with the other Russians in Paris.”

Veronica fell silent. She nodded solemnly, swishing her drink.

“Why would they come after you?” She asked, in a low voice, as if the Cheka might at this moment be listening.

“Are you serious? Because of who I am. What I am.”

“But you aren’t very political. I mean…as far as I can tell.”

“And you think they care? My father and brother were princes. That's enough.”

There was another moment of silence.

“Still…” Veronica prompted. “You can’t live in fear your entire life. And $250 dollars a week…”

Cheryl sighed. She was sick of living in a state of perpetual misery and terror. Awaking drenched with sweat from dreams of blood and fire. Fearing the scuff of a boot on cement behind her and the muzzle of a pistol to her head.

“I don’t…”

“Look. Just meet with St. Clair. I’ll take you. You can make up your mind after that. How does that sound?”

Cheryl took a deep, heavy breath. She subtly clutched her silver cross.

“Fine. Arrange it.”

* * *

 Jughead had been back to the Riverdale five times over the past week and a half. He was building connections. Making himself comfortable in this city. He’d met Sweet Pea and Fangs each time and spoken with them over drinks. He could consider them friends now, if tenuously.

He strolled into the nightclub the hour before dusk. It was already bustling. The stage was occupied by a three-woman troupe of Jazz singers from America who called themselves the Pussycats.

Paris was like a microcosm of the planet earth. In his short time here, he’d already met Germans, Italians, Britons, Americans, Chinese, Indians, Egyptians, Mexicans, and Frenchmen, of course. There was something about this ancient city that drew people. Some strange, ancient force that had made it a vortex of energy and culture for so many centuries. Perhaps it was the same force that had stirred the hearts of the Jacobins and the Communards. This was a revolutionary city. He belonged here.

Jughead ordered a beer, skimming the foam off of the top. The girls on stage were doing  _Tiger Rag_. He’d never been to America, but he thought he might like to go someday. Maybe when the revolution swept over the sea at last and the red flag was hoisted in Washington.

“Hey! Jones!” Fangs Fogarty waved to him. Like clockwork, hisrailwaymen comrades strode into the bar, still dressed in their work-clothes, broad faces beaded with sweat.

“Hey!” Jughead waved back.

Fangs and Sweet Pea took their seats across from Jughead.

“What a goddamn day.” Sweet Pea grumbled, snatching a drink meant for someone else from the waitress’ tray and passing her a few dollar bills to make up for it.   “Christ, you should have seen it. This smug, moneybags English sunnuvabitch in more furs than a grizzly bear starts howling that his cabin on the Orient Express is…what, three four square feet smaller than it was supposed to be, or something?”

“Five, I think he said.” Fangs corrected.

“Yeah. Whatever. Like that’s my problem. I just load the goddamn train and make sure his wealthy ass doesn’t go careening off the tracks somewhere between here and Istanbul.”

“I  _don’t_ envy you.” Jughead said, grinning.

“I’m going to burn down the fucking Gare de l’Est one of these days.” Sweet Pea promised. “You just see.”

“Sometimes.” Jughead started, sipping his drink. “I think it would be fun to make all of those bourgeois asses load their own coaches and shine their own shoes for a month. We’d see how long they lasted before western civilization came crashing down on our heads.”

His companions laughed.

“Amen.”

They joked for a while longer about the entitlement and arrogance of the privileged classes, before turning to less charged topics.

The door to the club swung open again. An attractive, bronze-skinned young woman stepped inside.

Fangs raised a hand in acclamation.

“Hey! Toni!”

She joined them at the table.

"This is the one we were telling you about,” Sweet Pea said. “The photographer. You know, the one that takes pictures of the Russian princess.” Jughead snapped to attention. He smiled, reached out, and shook her hand.

“Hi. Jughead Jones.”

“Toni Topaz. I see you’ve met my uh…let’s call them,  _friends_.”

Sweet Pea slugged her in the arm.

“Nice to meet you.” Jughead said with a smile. “So you’re a photographer?”

“Yep.”

He nodded.

“An interesting line of work.”

Sweet Pea leaned in and winked.

“We slave on the railroad while she gets paid twice our wages to look at pretty girls all day. Hell of a deal, huh?”

“That’s not  _all_!” She insisted. Then she smiled slyly. “But, mostly, yeah.”

Jughead raised his glass. “Well, kudos to you. Living the dream. That’s what everyone comes to Paris for, right?”

The four get to talking, and Jughead finds that Antoinette ‘Toni’ Topaz is really a rather likeable person. A lover of books, like him, and also a fellow admirer of the rising art of cinema. The sort of person who had not enjoyed the easiest life, but kept herself grounded by engaging with the world through a sturdy veil of gibe and cynicism.

“Why’d I leave?” She laughed. “I couldn’t stay in a country that bans drink! Well, you know, among other things.”

It was a good point.

“That’s one of the perks of being a sailor.” Jughead said. “Laws only apply until you’re out of port. And I’m talking  _all sorts_ of laws.”

Everyone laughed.

“This is Paris.” Sweet Pea said. “I’m not sure people here even know what a law  _is_.”

“And thank God for that.” Fangs joked.

About an hour into the conversation, Jughead decides it’s safe to angle for some information.

“So, tell me about your princess.” He goads.

Toni awkwardly swallows a gulp of beer.

“ _My_ princess?”

“ _The_ princess, if you prefer.”

“Why?” She asked, coming across a little defensive.

“I’m just curious.” Jughead explained. “I’ve never met a princess before.”

He’d shot a few, though.

Toni shrugged.

“Well, I’m afraid I can’t tell you much, Mr. Jones. She doesn’t like to talk about her past much. Her whole family was wiped out by the Bolsheviks in Russia, I think.”

“That’s too bad.”

Sweet Pea, really in his drink, now, opens his mouth. “I haven’t read the good book in quite a while, but uh…what’s that line about reaping what you sow?”

“No one deserves to lose their family.” Toni snapped.

“Alright, alright, my bad.”

“But anyway, like I said, there’s not much I can tell you, Jughead. I don’t know much myself. She used to live in St. Petersburg, I think?”

“St. Petersburg.” Jughead sipped his drink. “I know it.” He should. He’d grown up there, too, after all. “What’s she called?”

“Her name’s Cheryl.”

“Not so Russian.” Jughead said. Of course not. That had been the funny thing about the country’s nobility. Most of them were French or German or English by blood, and yet they felt they had the right to dictate the destinies of millions of Russians.

“Well, she had an English father or something.” Toni said. She was silent, for a moment, staring into her drink. She stirred her glass. “She’s very pretty. Very sad.” She mumbled, less to her companions than her beer.” I guess you can’t blame her.”

Jughead nodded.

“Ah, big deal.” Sweet Pea said. “We’ve all got something to be sad about. They cut our fucking wages on the line because some jokers tried to steal a section of track. What the hell do you even do with four meters of railroad?”

“We’re gonna shoot that goddamn foreman one of these days. Mark my words.” Fangs said.

“Run the damn train ourselves.” Sweet Pea added, grimly.


	4. The Children of the Revolution

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To anyone who's been reading this--sorry for the time since the last update. Please enjoy.

Cheryl Blossom met Nicholas St. Clair in his family’s mansion in Montmarte, a towering pile of blinding marble built in the Empire style. Veronica hooked her arm into Cheryl’s and guided her into the house. Archibald parked the Ford around the back. Elizabeta stepped out, sizing up the great mansion. None of them were particularly impressed. The Blossom estate outside Petersburg had been much nicer, after all. And more tasteful, too.

“Do you want us to come up?” Elizabeta asked. To her shock, Cheryl didn’t admonish her for forgetting the ‘highness’.

“No, Elizabeta. That’s fine.” Both her attendants breathed sighs of relief.

St. Clair was a handsome young man with a full head of curly hair and restless, keen blue eyes.

“Your Highness!” He exclaimed. “I can see the camera has not done you any sort of justice. “You are much lovelier in person.” To Cheryl’s surprise, she felt a flash of indignation at the implication that the camera and its diligent if insufferable operator not done her justice. St. Clair leaned down and kissed her hand. She smiled. Still, it was nice to have someone treat her like nobility again.

“Let’s turn down the charm, Nick.” Veronica said, rolling her eyes. “We’re here on business, after all. Not pleasure.”

The young man smiled.

“I’ve always considered that the two can coexist.” He turned his attention to the redhead. “So, Highness. I assume Veronica’s told you all about my proposition?” He led them deeper into the great house and ushered them into a cavernous sitting room plastered with cinematic paraphernalia. Posters hung from the walls, a few assorted costumes languished behind glass cases, and a collection of film reels stamped with their titles sat in a repurposed bookshelf.

“A bit.” Cheryl said. “She went into no…great detail.”

“I didn’t want to overstep.” Veronica said.

The trio sat down, and Nick offered them glasses of brandy.

“So, what detail _did_ she go into?”

“Only that you, for some inscrutable reason, thought I’d be a good match for a part in one of your…pictures.”

“Highness, we’ve all seen your pictures, and thus we all know the reason is _far_ from ‘inscrutable’.”

“Flattery may get you…somewhere.”

“But…” Veronica patted Cheryl on the shoulder. “Ravishing as we can all agree my friend here is, that’s not the _only_ reason, is it, Nick?”

Nick leaned back in his seat.

“No, she’s right. Did Veronica tell you anything about the picture we’re producing?”

“No. She did not.” Cheryl said, now realizing that might be something she might like to know.

“Well, then I will.” He poured himself more brandy. “It’s an epic about the French Revolution. _The Throne and the Scaffold.”_ Cheryl bristled at the word ‘revolution’.

“I see. And my part is…”

Nick motioned for silence. He stood and plucked a stack of papers from a nearby bureau.

“You’d be our leading lady, the Princess de Condé.”

Cheryl smirked.

“Oh. I see. You though-“

“I thought; ‘who better to play a princess than a princess?’”

“Is that the screenplay?”

“Yes.”

“Let me see it.”

He handed it over. She thumbed through it lazily for a minute or two.

“What do you think?”

“Let’s discuss the one thing that really matters; price.”

Nick’s smile faltered a little. It quickly regained its footing.

“Alright. You’re direct. I appreciate that. I’m offering $250 a week. USD, of course.”

Cheryl crossed her arms. Veronica patted her shoulder, like a trainer encouraging his fighter.

“$300.” Cheryl said.

Nick was silent for a moment. His face became an unreadable mask. He swished his brandy. The ice clinked against the glass. Finally, a great smile broke out.

“Alright, Highness. Deal.” He reached out his hand. She still hesitated. Veronica elbowed her gently. She took a deep breath, reached out, and shook the man’s hand.

* * *

“I took the part.” Toni’s jaw dropped. That was the last thing she’d ever expected to hear. Cheryl said it she emerged from the dressing room. And she said it so casually, offhandedly. As if it weren’t the most shocking thing that could have passed her lips. The redhead smoothed out the creases in today’s dress. Then she noticed Toni was staring at her like she’d grown wings. “What?” Cheryl snapped. “ _What?_ ”

“Nothing…” Toni laughed. “I’m just…surprised? Awed?”

And a little sad, though she kept that part to herself. Maybe Cheryl would be back someday, once her money from the picture ran out, but it wouldn’t be for a very long time. And she’d gotten used to the petulant noblewoman. It was fun to annoy her and watch her flounder. She wasn’t sure she’d ever have another model that managed to wear well every single thing she tried on (but she’d take that little secret to her grave).

“Well, I decided one great indignity was preferable to a litany of small ones.”

Strangest of all, Toni felt a little worried. Maybe she didn’t have any right to make such a judgment, but she always felt like Cheryl was hanging on by a thread. Like she’d only just barely managed to reconstruct a life for herself here, and that it might come undone at any moment. Like anything might bring it crumbling down.

“Well, I’m happy for you. I hope it goes well.”

“Actually, I had a question for you.”

“Sure?”

“You said you’d worked with film cameras before, right?”

“Oh. Yeah. Once or twice. Nothing big.” Toni said, unsure where she was heading with this. “Why?”

Cheryl paused. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, as if it would pain her to say her next words.

“Well…I wanted to ask you if you would consider coming along with me. To serve as a cameraman. Well, camerawoman.”

Her first instinct was to say ‘yes’, before she realized how silly it was. Toni laughed. She knew Cheryl didn’t know much about modern technology, much less motion pictures, but it was still a little funny. That is, if she wasn’t joking.

“I’m sure Veronica Lodge’s mysterious friend, whoever he is, will have _plenty_ of cameramen at his disposal.”

Cheryl sighed. She planted her fists on her hips and rolled her eyes, as if she was explaining something to a child.

“Yes, but not cameramen that I’m _accustomed_ to. Look, do you have any idea how long it’s taken me to build up a tolerance for _you_ pointing a camera at me every other day? I _don’t_ want to do it again with some idiot who’s undoubtedly going to do his level best to inconvenience me every step of the way.”

Toni smiled and shook her head.

“I’m a little flattered. And surprised. Again. But…I have a job here, you know, I can’t just jump ship.”

“You’d be paid, _obviously_.”

“Well-“ Toni paused. It did sound interesting. It would give them a reason to keep working together. It would certainly be a new experience working with a motion picture studio. Assuming such an idea was even approved by the higher ups. They probably wouldn’t be keen on letting their new star call all of the shots as far as hiring decisions. But it was silly, anyway. She had to stay here. Probably.

“Sorry, doll. I don’t think I can swing that.”

“Well at least _think_ about it. You aren’t a terrible photographer, you know. I’m assuming you can work the same magic on film.”

“ _Magic_?” She echoed, with a teasing smile on her face.

“Poor choice of words.” Cheryl said quickly. “But if I can be persuaded to take part in such an…enterprise, so can you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Poor choice of words,” she repeated.

“Hey, look at that, she’s developing a sense of humor.” Toni quipped. “Now, come on. Let’s take some pictures.”

“Think it over.”

“What?”

“ _Think it over_.”

“Alright. You win. I’ll think it over.”

* * *

 

Jughead watched the scarlet banners wave back and forth in the spring winds, a sea of fluttering red. It was hypnotic. Beautiful. Beneath their shade, masses of singing men and women coursed through the square like flowing water.

_Arise, ye pris’ners of starvation_

_Arisie ye damned of the earth_

_For reason thunders in her crater_

_Tis the eruption of the end!_

“ _Vive la Commune!”_

_“Vive la Russie Soviétique!”_

It was the 28th of March 1921, and a half-century since the proclamation of the Paris Commune. Those glorious few weeks all those decades ago that had ignited a fire in the hearts of the earth’s downtrodden unmatched since the storming of the Bastille.

“Hell of a parade!” Sweet Pea shouted over the din. He held a little red flag in his right hand. So did Fangs.Toni stood off to the side, snapping occasional photographs of the proceedings.

The mass of thousands of workers moved down he Rue de la Paix, past the spot where the Communards had hauled down the Vendome Column fifty years ago. They sang every anthem in the socialist repertoire. They made toasts to the health of Comrade Lenin and to the downfall of international capitalism, while the city’s privileged watched disapprovingly from their sixth-story windows.

“Thanks for the invitation.” Jughead said.

Toni shook her head, smiling. “Of course they invited you! They’re dyed-in-the-wool reds. All the railwaymen in Paris are reds. What was that they fired you two goons for, last year?”

Sweet Pea and Fangs grinned.

“They wanted us to load munitions for the Poles fighting against Soviet Russia. So we wrote up this big banner: ‘NOT ONE NUT, BOLT, OR BULLET FOR REACTIONARY POLAND!’ and went marching up and down the train station with it. They sacked our asses so fast our heads spun.”

Jughead laughed. And he was quite thankful. After all, since he’d been in Byelorussia with the Red Army that spring, any bullets sent to Piłsudski’s Poles might have well ended up in his head.

“We got our jobs back.” Fangs said. “After a…lengthy union dispute.”

“It was kind of a funny stunt.” Toni admitted.

“It’s too bad we lost.” Jughead muttered.

“Hey, you boys want to hear something fun?” Toni asked.

“Yeah?”

“Looks like I’m going to be working on a motion picture soon.”

“Who made that abysmal hiring decision?” Sweet Pea asked.

“Oh, shut up. Cheryl, actually.”

Jughead forgot that he was kind of having fun and remembered he was here to do a job.

“Really?”

“She landed some part in an American picture and wanted me to come on board.”

"I thought you two hated each other.” Fangs said.

“We don’t _hate_ each other. We have an…occasionally difficult professional relationship.”

“I’m impressed you’re able to tolerate her presence for more than ten or fifteen minutes.”

“You met her _one_ time, Sweet Pea.”

“Yeah, and she tried to gut me that one time.”

“My _point_ was that if you boys like you’re welcome to drop by the set once filming starts. But maybe not if you’re going to be…like this about it.”

“I’d be interested in that.” Jughead said. And he _would_ be.

“Whenever it is, I’m sure we’ll be working.” Fangs said.

“What sort of picture?” Jughead asked, half in the pursuance of his duty, half out of genuine interest.

“Some sort of production about the French Revolution, I think.” Toni said. “I’m shocked she took the part, actually. Considering…well, you know.”

“Who better for a movie about fallen nobles than a fallen noble?” Jughead said. He appreciated the joke, a little.

“True.”

“Sounds like a disaster waiting to happen,” Fangs said.

“ _You’re_ a disaster waiting to happen.” Toni snapped.

“Also very true.” Fangs replied.

“There’s something I’ve been curious about. Ever since you mentioned it.” Jughead said, deciding it safe to press for a vital bit of information. “Where in Paris does a princess deign to live?”

“Oh. Somewhere in the 17th arrondissement.” Toni said. He knew that. “There are lots of Russian exiles there. Right around the Place de Clichy, I think.” He _didn’t_ know that. But now he did. And so he had a destination.

He hung around for another hour. Then he took his leave.

“Well, it’s been lovely, but I’ve got to be off. Have fun; long live the international working class, and all that. Toni! Keep in touch with me about that picture!”

He took a cab back to the 17th arrondissement, and then made his way to the Place de Clichy, where four of Paris’ arrondissements met. That was the most specific information he had, so he drifted back and forth through the ancient streets, looking for something, anything, that might point him toward his quarry.

It was almost dark and he was close to calling it off and coming back in the morning. He rounded a corner and started up a wide avenue lined with fine, luxurious townhouses. The nests of the wealthy. He buried his hands into the pockets of his jacket and spit. One day soon, communism would triumph over the whole world. All of these parasite swine that grew fat on the people’s blood would pay. Dearly.

Jughead was brooding on such bloody thoughts when he noticed a flash of movement in the periphery of his vision. He didn’t know why it caught his eye. The streets were filled with people. There was nothing special about that burst of color. But he turned his head, and what he saw almost knocked him over in sheer shock.

It was Betty Cooper. Elizabeta. The friend he thought he would never see again. One of the only friends he’d ever had in the world. The one the Blossoms had taken from him.

She and Archibald had gone to work for the Blossom family, leaving him alone in Petersburg, but he had never so much as considered that they might have remained with Cheryl throughout the chaos of the revolution and then through the flight across Europe. And yet there she was. She stepped out of a great baroque townhouse, blonde hair pulled neatly back into a ponytail, like always. His mouth went dry. She walked lightly, easily, like she always did.

Jughead’s head spun. This must be a dream. It could not be.

A black Ford pulled out from behind the house and rolled to a stop before her. He squinted, and received the second great shock of the past five minutes. Because the tall, broad-shouldered redhead driving the automobile was Archibald Andrews.

He was delighted. First on a basic, human level. The level of a child. His _friends_! He’d found them again! His _friends_ , who had made the dark, grimy streets of Petersburg a little less lonely. They were _back_. He wasn’t alone anymore!

And then he composed himself. They weren’t his friends. That was over. He remembered well. They’d gone to serve the Blossoms. They’d sided with the exploiters. With the bloodsuckers. They’d left him alone. What they were now was a means to an end.

Then came the next pleasant surprise of the day.

Cheryl Blossom herself stepped out of the house, red hair bouncing as she descended the steps to the automobile. Archie held the back door open for her, and the princess slipped inside. Betty got in after her. Jughead smiled.

_Found you._

* * *

Jughead staked out the townhouse for the next few days. He took stock of the occupants’ schedules and habits. There were his old friends, now Cheryl’s chauffeur and lady in waiting, it seemed. There was a young man with a rifle that he did not recognize, who he presumed to be a guardsman. He might prove trouble. There was another young woman, a maid of some sort.

Cheryl did not leave the house too often. When she did, it was never alone. Always, Betty and Archie came with her. Often the young man with the rifle did, too. So did the maid, sometimes. If he were simply here to kill her, it would be so much easier. He could fire a rifle from a rooftop across the street and be done with it. But he wanted his Order of the Red Banner. And anyway, that was far too easy. She should be so lucky to have a death that merciful.

Jughead finally acted some days later. He’d established that every so often, when not on duty, Archie and Betty repaired to a little café a few blocks away for a drink and a much-needed respite from their mistress.

It took him days to work up the courage. Once, he very nearly emerged from the crowd to greet them, and then pulled back at the last moment.

Finally, one bright Friday morning, he made his move.

Betty and Archie sat at an outdoor table on the street, too embroiled in conversation to tell his approach.

He feigned shock. “ _Betty?”_

Two heads turned at once. He swore the blood drained from their faces.

“ _Jughead?”_ Came their voices in unison. He rushed over, a genuine smile of joy on his face.

“Oh my God!” Betty exclaimed. She nearly stumbled out of her seat to meet him, and fell into his arms. Jughead gently lifted her to her feet and pulled her into a tight, crushing embrace. His heart soared. He choked back real tears. Archie threw himself into the hug. The three of them stood in the middle of the crowded café, eyes wet, babbling incoherently in excitement and disbelief.

“I-I can’t _believe_ it!” Archie stammered. “Jughead, what are you _doing_ here?”

“Who cares?” Jughead exclaimed, and in the moment he meant it. He allowed Archie to nearly snap his spine in a brutal hug that lifted him clear off of his feet.

Betty hugged him again and he gently, subtly repositioned her hand before it brushed against the revolver secreted away at his hip.

They ushered him into a seat at the table and ordered him a cup of coffee. They were quite a sight, the blonde in her fine Russian dress, the redhead in a dorky chauffeur’s uniform, and their long-lost friend in his dark leather coat and soldier’s boots.

“We thought you were _dead_!” Archie almost cried.

“…We didn’t think he was _dead_ , Archie.” Betty said. “Okay, maybe a bit.”

“I’ve felt dead half the time.” He smiled.

“We never thought we’d see you again.” Betty said, wiping a tear from one bright blue eye. She reached out and put her hands over his. “We’ve missed you so much.”

“I’ve missed you two more.” Jughead responded, voice cracking.

Archie drummed his fingers on the table, unsure of what to say. He shook his head in further disbelief.

“After you disappeared…” Archie said, a broad smile on his face. “I don’t know, things just weren’t the same.”

“Excuse me, Archibald. I never _disappeared_.” Jughead said. “As I recall, it was the two of _you_ who left _me_ to go and offer your services to the House of Blossom.” He said it in a teasing lilt, and he hoped the real hurt and anger in his words was masked.

Archie shrugged apologetically.

“We did what we had to do, Jug.”

Maybe they had. When they had all turned fifteen, Betty’s mother, long Penelope Blossom’s lady in waiting, had insisted her daughter leave St. Petersburg for the Blossom estate in the country. Archie had come along, with Betty finding him a last minute job replacing a sacked chauffeur. And Jughead had been alone. That had been in 1915. As he had seen it, along with their taxman bleeding him dry each month, the Blossoms had stolen his only friends in the world from him.

“Right.” Jughead said, bitterly. “So did I.” And he did.

“What _did_ you do, Jug?” Betty asked. “All this time?”

He smiled again. _You don’t want to know_.

“A lot. I was drafted a year after you left, you know. 1916. Just in time to fight the Austrians.”

Betty put a hand over her mouth.

“Oh my God. Jughead, I’m so sorry.”

“Drafted?” Archie shook his head. “You were 16, that’s not-“

“Yeah. The Tsar’s ‘recruiters’ weren’t sticklers for the regulations. You know how it’s always been. One law for them, another one for us.”

“I’m sorry.” Archie said.

“Don’t be. You two didn’t throw me at German machine guns.”

The shrieks of the Tsarist officers still rang in his ears. He and his fellow conscripts had huddled, filthy and louse-ridden in their muddy trenches, shaking and praying. Their generals and lieutenants had strutted along the lines in their fine uniforms, sabers rattling at their hips. “ _Charge! For the glory of the Tsar! Of Russia! Of God and country! If you don’t have a rifle, pick up your fallen comrade’s!”_ And they’d charged, boys as young as fifteen, to be cut to be bloody ribbons by the merciless guns of the enemy. When they fell by the tens of thousands, there were tens of thousands more for the officers to throw into the fray. Men were just another resource, after all.

“At least you’re okay.” Betty said, soft, face full of sympathy.

 _Okay_. There was a laugh.

“Yeah.” Jughead said. “I’m fine.”

“What happened after that?” Archie asked.

“After that? After the front collapsed, the entire damn army deserted. I more or less walked back to Petersburg.” That was true, partly. He _had_ gotten home, eventually. “Then the revolution came.” He said. And from then on, he would have to lie. “And the two of you?”

Archie shrugged.

“The revolution surprised everybody.”

 _It wouldn’t have if you’d been paying any damn attention, Archie._ Jughead thought.

“Right.”

“Everything was okay, at first, when Kerensky was in. But when the Bolsheviks took over things went pear-shaped fast. The reds killed Clifford and Penelope in Tsaritsyn.”

Jughead had to suppress a smile. _Yes, he had_.

“Really?”

“Yeah. Cheryl and Jason got away to the north. We went with them, of course. Betty’s parents…and my father…they didn’t…well, anyway. After Jason was captured and…well…we had to get out. We caught the last ship out of Reval, and then we ended up here.”

“Why’d you stay with her?” Jughead asked, unable to suppress himself.

“What?”

“With Cheryl. Through all of this. Why?”

They both stared at him.

“I don’t know.” Betty said. “It was our duty.”

“Your duty? What duty?”

“I don’t know. We couldn’t have just abandoned her. She didn’t have anyone else left.”

“Ah, yes. God forbid she have to clean up after herself, for once.”

Betty rolled her eyes.

“Jughead, we’ve been reunited for all of three hours. Come on.”

“What?”

“I know you’ve always hated the Blossoms, but-“

“If you’d grown up with them hiking your rent every other week instead of paying your salary, you would, too.”

Betty sighed.

“Cheryl was our age. It wasn’t her fault.”

“Has she gotten any better?”

“Well…a little?”

“I’m sure.” Jughead smirked.

“Let’s talk about something else.” Archie said, awkwardly. “Have you stayed in Russia all this time or…”

“I’ve done a bit of traveling.”

“Really? Where.”

“Oh, all over. Poland. Estonia. Hungary. Turkey. Germany.” Those were all true, of course.

“Well…” Betty said, smiling and eager to redirect the conversation. “Tell us about…Hungary!” She chose at random.

 _Hungary._ In 1919, Lenin had sent him to Budapest to help communist leader Bela Kun consolidate his short-lived soviet republic. He’d instructed Kun’s red guards in the art of terror. ' _You must be like iron'_ he had told them. ' _You must not be men or women, you must be_ revolutionaries _._ _Sympathy for the class enemy is treason'_. They had learned well.  

“Oh, I spent a few weeks in Budapest. It’s a really lovely city. A lot of culture.”

* * *

The first day of shooting came quickly. On the outskirts of Paris, near the Marne where old German trenches still sliced their way through the rolling green country, Nicholas St. Clair’s Greenwhich Studio leased a tract of land worth a few dozen square miles. Upon it, an elaborate reconstruction of 18th century revolutionary Paris was painstakingly constructed to the tune of $110,000.

The Bastille is resurrected in all of its grim glory, only to be set aflame during its dramatic storming halfway through the film. The _Place de la Revolution_ is rebuilt, and a fully functional replica guillotine erected in the square, slopped with pig’s blood.

Cheryl sat still as she could while a small army of makeup artists and stylists transformed her into the picture of an 18th century French aristocrat. Her face was powdered so heavily she felt like she was wearing an iron mask. Her luxurious ginger hair was piled high into an absurd red mountain threaded through with enough flowers to put the gardens at Versailles to shame. The dress they’d stuffed her into sported maddeningly fluffy skirts that made walking a few steps a titanic effort and a neckline so low it seemed indulgent even for the court of Marie Antoinette.

She wasn’t thoroughly impressed with the script. It wasn’t awful, but _The Throne and the Scaffold_ was clearly the sort of feature that gambled on visual spectacle compensating for shortcomings in the plot. It was the story of the Princess de Condé, a (fictional) Parisian noblewoman and confidante of the queen whose carefree life of dances and parties is rudely interrupted by the storm of revolution. As France descends into anarchy, she finds herself subject to the unwanted attentions of the bloodthirsty revolutionary leader Desrosiers (who, if Cheryl remembered her history lessons well, seemed to be a composite of Robespierre, Saint-Just, and Fouche). Meanwhile, she begins a torrid affair with a dashing young Jacobin named Francois. In the film’s climactic scene, she is brought before the Revolutionary Tribunal of Paris and sentenced to die on the guillotine only to be saved by the last minute intervention of Francois.

“Close those pretty eyes, darling, we don’t want to blind you.” Admonished a woman dusting her cheeks with rouge. She grudgingly complied.

What seemed like three hours later, her costuming was finally complete.

“Stand up, love.” Said a very proud dress-fitter.

Cheryl got to her feet, shaky. When she lifted her head and stared into the nearest mirror, she almost fainted. She looked ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. The horrific thought that thousands of people would see her like this hit all at once. But it was too late now. She swallowed her pride and her terror.

The set was bustling. Archibald was embroiled in a captivating conversation with some of the prop people. Elizabeta watched the proceedings in silence, with a smile on her face, from a little grassy knoll just off of the set. Kevin, who had unprofessionally laid down his very real rifle near the prop muskets, was speaking with one of the screenplay editors.

“Hey!”

Cheryl whirled around, and the voluminous skirts almost sent her sprawling to her knees. Antoinette jogged up to her, grinning profusely. She felt an overwhelming sense of relief. There was going to be _some_ element of familiarity to this madness. Cheryl was immensely glad St. Clair had agreed to allow her on as a camera operator.

“Oh! Look who decided to put in an appearance.” Cheryl said.

“Of course. You making an absolute fool of yourself on film for all the world to see?” The American grinned. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Cheryl rolled her eyes, but smiled.

“In all honesty–and _don’t_ you dare crack a joke–I’m glad you’re here.” She cast a wary look around the gargantuan set. “This place is a madhouse.”

“Looks like.”

A dark figure crept up behind Antoinette. Cheryl lifted up her gaze to see a raven-haired young man staring back at her through a pair of vivid, cold blue eyes. A heavy black leather coat hung on his shoulders, cinched loosely around the waist. The tail rustled gently in the autumn breeze. The young man smiled and pulled a hand from his coat pocket.

“Hello.” He said.

“Oh, Cheryl. This is my new friend uh…Jughead Jones. Don’t laugh!”

“Thanks, Toni.” Jughead smiled sardonically.

“Oh. Well. Hello, Jughead.” Cheryl said, watching the man intently. Something about him unnerved her immediately. She suppressed it.

“Good morning, highness.” He said, smile never faltering. His accent seemed vaguely familiar. It wasn’t Russian, but not American or British, either. Regardless, his English was perfect, if odd.

“I brought him along because he…appreciates cinema. I invited Fangs and Sweet Pea, too, but fortunately for you, they were busy.”

“Indeed.” Cheryl said flatly.

Before Jones could say anything further, Nicholas St. Clair emerged from the morass, trailed closely by Veronica Lodge.

“ _There’s_ my star.” He exulted. He turned his gaze onto Antoinette. “ _And_ her personal camerawoman.” He motioned for them to follow. “Come on, let’s go get ready.”

Toni took Cheryl by the arm and led her away after the oily St. Clair. “See you around, Jughead.” She called over her shoulder. The man in the leather coat smiled.

St. Clair led them past armies of extras in period dress and workmen hastily adding finishing touches to the sets.

Behind a phalanx of cameras and elaborately organized mirrors and screens, she was introduced for the first time to her co-lead, a handsome, tanned young American with striking blue eyes by the name of DeSantos. The director, a serious, direct sort from Massachusetts named Robert Philips, had insisted they not meet each other until the first day of filming. Dressed in the ragged clothes of a 18th century Parisian sans-culotte, a liberty cap and tricolor cockade pulled over his slicked black hair, DeSantos stepped forward and kissed her hand.

“Joaquin DeSantos. Hi.” He greeted.

“You’re…” Cheryl started.

“When they can’t get Valentino, they get me. I’m your love interest, I suppose. And you’re a real life princess, huh?” His grin widened. “Well, that’s sure something. I’m just a sap from Los Angeles.”

“Alright!” Phillips thundered. “Enough! Daylight’s wasting! Everyone to his place! I hope to God you’ve all read the damn script this time around!”

Cheryl felt her heart beat quicken. The set sizzled as a legion of designers, technicians, and actors rushed into position. To her surprise, she felt Antoinette reach out and squeeze her forearm reassuringly.

“Hey. You’ll do fine, I’m sure. Go break a leg, okay?”

“ _What?”_

“It…it’s a saying. Go. Good luck.”

* * *

 

“Hey! Juggy! What are you doing here?”

 _Shit_.

Jughead was in a bit of a fix. He, the implacable hunter of men and hardened revolutionary, had fouled up his avenues of approach. Of course, he hadn’t expected to run into his two oldest friends on this particular assignment.

But they were here, on set with Cheryl. And so was his new friend Toni. So now he had to balance his twin existences as a seaman from Latvia and as Jones from St. Petersburg, respectively.

“Betty!” He greeted, pulling her into another hug. He couldn’t deny that, despite it all, he was genuinely delighted to see her again. “Hi.”

“What are you doing here?” She asked again, and Jughead realized he wasn’t going to be able to weasel out of it.

“It’s a funny story, actually.” He said. “You know, I made a few friends at a bar in town, and it just so _happened_ one of them was working on this picture. Isn’t that a funny coincidence? So she asked if me I wanted to drop by and observe. That's all.”

Betty squinted at him, a thin smile on her angelic face.

“That _is_ a big coincidence.”

He gritted his teeth.

“It _is_.”

She looked over his shoulder.

“So where’s this friend?”

“She’s…working with the cameramen. Don’t worry about her.”

They sat down to watch the production unfold. The first scene of the picture, a grand royal ball in the Hall of Mirrors, was underway. Betty gripped Jughead’s arm and dragged him down onto the ground with her.

“This is something exciting, isn’t it?” Betty asked.

Jughead cocked his head.

“I guess it is.”

“So you never really answered my question.” Betty said, nudging him gently with a shoulder.

“Which one?”

“Why are you in Paris? What are you doing in the _Ville Lumière_?” She teased.

“Traveling. Visiting. Not specific enough?”

“Nope.”

“Okay. I was drawn by some strange, mystical force I cannot name, which told me I would find my long lost companions here.”

“You’re incorrigible.”

Jughead laughed. He felt like he was in Petersburg, wiling away the days with his two best friends in the world. Dreaming of something better on the horizon. But he wasn’t. He was here, and he had a job to do. This could not last.

“So do you think _her highness_ has got any acting ability secreted away somewhere?”

Betty giggled a little. She pushed Jughead gently.

“I guess we’ll see, won’t we? If there’s anything I’ve learned over the past few years, though, it’s that Cheryl Blossom is absolutely full of surprises.”

“I’ll bet she is.” Jughead said, grinning.

Cheryl delivered her first lines with impressive force considering she was going to have to surrenderthem to an intertitle.

“What power could snatch the crown from the House of Bourbon?” The newly minted Princess de Condé asked, voice firm and haughty.

_What power could snatch the crown from the House of Romanov?_

“When was the last time you were in Russia?” Betty asked, suddenly. Jughead froze.

“Not too long ago. A few months, actually.”

“Oh.” She was silent for a long while. “How is it, now? Ever since…”

“Russia survives. Like always.” Jughead said. “We still go to work. We still eat and drink. It’s just…everything’s in red, now.”

“Sometimes I think I’d like to go home.”

He turned to face her, face firm and true.

“You could, you know.”

Betty shook her head. She wrung her hands.

“I can’t, you know. Cheryl can’t–well…”

“Sure.” He said. And it was true of course; to cross back into Russia for Cheryl Blossom would mean to share the fate of her brother. Which was precisely why he was going to drag her home. “You could, though. You haven’t done anything that would…” He cut himself short, to keep from sounding too much like a chekist.

“Maybe one day.” Betty said. “You stayed. How do they treat you? The…new government.”

“Oh.” He said. “Just fine. For the most part. Keep your head down, stand in line for your bread, and all will be well. As long as you don’t run afoul of the Cheka.”

“I’ve heard stories…of what they do to people.”

“There’s no such thing as a kind government. Soviet Russia is nothing special.” He waved a hand dismissively.

Betty leaned her head against Jughead’s shoulder. Her golden hair fell in waves over the stiff leather of his coat.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have brought that up. It’s all so awful. We’re just glad you’re back with us.”

“Can I come by and visit, sometime?” He didn’t mean to say it. It just slipped out.

“What?” Betty asked.

“You and Archie, I mean. At the house. Well…if it would be alright with your _boss_.”

“Oh! I…I’d like that. I’m sure Cheryl would be okay with it.”

He smiled.

* * *

 

By the time Cheryl finished her first day of filming, she was nearly swooning from exhaustion. The caked on makeup and ponderous skirts felt leaden. She staggered out of the glow of the lights and the glint of the cameras, trying to keep from fainting. DeSantos, whose character had not yet met hers on the screen, passed her by. His prop musket rattled on his shoulder. He patted her on the arm and said: “Good show. See you tomorrow.” Then disappeared. She could only muster a tired nod in response.

Cheryl made her way towards the dressing rooms. She was drenched in sweat, and from more than the physical effects of the costuming and the lights. Today’s centerpiece had been the film’s opening scene: the dance at Versailles. Through the hours of filming, she struggled to keep herself grounded in the present. To remember that she was in Paris and _not_ in Petersburg. Remember that it was 1921 and _not_ 1917\. Remember that these were harmless actors playing Jacobins and _not_ the Bolsheviks. Remember that the young man in the corner was only some nameless extra, and _not_ her brother. It was too real.

“Hey.” She turned at the sound of Antoinette’s voice. The young woman emerged from a hallway. “Tough day, huh?”

“In _front_ of the cameras, at least.”

Antoinette shrugged.

“Well, they didn’t have much for me to do behind them. Like I told you, your friends have got plenty of cameramen already. I didn’t do much besides fill in when someone needed a piss or a drink.”

“I’m sure you did fine.” Cheryl sighed.

“Woah. Is that you talking or is all of that 18th century makeup seeping into your brain?”

“Oh, go to hell.” Cheryl said. “I have to go and undo this nonsense they’ve twisted my hair into.” Antoinette prodded the mountain of hair with a finger. “Stop it!”

“Yeah, I’m not sure even _you_ can wear that well.”

Cheryl smiled at the tacit compliment. It meant something considering this woman had seen her in every conceivable costume or combination of costumes over the past year.

“So how did I do?” Cheryl asked.

Antoinette crossed her arms.

“Not bad, for someone who thinks acting is only slightly better than panhandling.”

“I _never_ said that.”

“You thought it, I’m sure.” Antoinette lowered her head and laughed. “But, really. I think you did well. This might actually not turn out too bad of a picture.” It grew dark out. The stars in the sky blinked into being. The artificial buildings of 18th century Paris loomed up around them.

Cheryl looked over her shoulder. The set was clearing fast, and there didn’t seem to be anyone else in earshot.

“Thanks again for coming along with us.”

“Sure. I’ve put a year’s worth of time and effort into you, I couldn’t drop you now. Who knows, if you become famous maybe I can ride your coattails into a mansion or something.”

“And you know all of my good angles.”

Antoinette winked.

“They’re all good angles.”

Cheryl’s jaw droppd. She was suddenly thankful for the inches of layered makeup that covered her reddening cheeks.

“Very bold.”

“Bold’s my middle name. Now go get out of that ridiculous dress before you faint.”

She turned to head toward the dressing rooms.

“Until later, Antoinette.”

“Toni. _Seriously._ It’s been a year now, come on. _Toni_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for being incapable of writing romance in any capacity.
> 
> Also the next thing I write won't have anything to do with communism I swear. How about a Napoleonic Wars AU


	5. The Throne and the Scaffold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guess who's back?

Kevin Keller leaned up against the base of the guillotine. It was an impressive, ugly machine. The blade was real metal, too. When he looked at the device he felt a chill of fear, and found himself picturing what it must have been like to march up the blood-drenched scaffold while a seething crowd clamored for your head. 

Of course, he knew a few people that didn’t _have_ to wonder.

He lit a cigarette. Filming had ended, and now he was only waiting for his mistress to strip out of that ridiculous costume so they could all go home.

He had no idea where Archie or Betty had disappeared to. But they’d turn up. They always did.

Kevin hardly noticed the man step out of the shadows.

“So, that’s a real gun?”

It took Kevin a moment to notice that actor, DeSantos. The American with the blue eyes and the well-groomed hair. He was a handsome devil, as leading men out to be.

Kevin patted the pistol at his hip.

“Yep. It’s real.”

“Got another smoke?”

Kevin handed the young man a cigarette.

“Enjoy. DeSantos, right?”

“Joaquin is fine.” DeSantos said.

“Alright then, Joaquin.” He pointed to himself. “Keller. Kevin Keller.”

“Ain’t you and your friends Russian? That’s not a very Russian name, is it?”

Kevin shrugged. It wasn’t the first time he’d been asked that question.

“My father was American, actually. He got a job in the Russian gendarmerie, way back before I was born. Long story. So…”

Joaquin nodded and puffed on his cigarette.

“Interesting. So you make sure nobody makes off with the princess?”

Kevin laughed.

“Something like that, yeah. Though frankly, I think most people would be more afraid of her, than of me.”

“She a real piece of work?”

Kevin whistled.

“She _can_ be. She’s not quite as bad as…well…first impressions.”

Joaquin watched him intently, bright blue eyes glinting.

“She seems okay. A little flighty.” He shook his head. “Anyway, you should see some of the guys and gals I’ve had to work with. She can’t be that bad.”

“How long have you been in this business?”

“Oh, not long. I got a bit part in a play in LA about four years back. The rest happened real fast. Made my head spin.”

“You like it?”

“Sure. I get paid to play at being other guys. What’s not to like?”

“You don’t like yourself?” He looked the young man, tall and handsome, over. “I don’t think I’d mind being you.”

Joaquin winked.

“I like me just fine. But it’s fun to pretend. Anyway, it pays a hell of a lot better than working in a fish cannery does, let me tell you. That was me four years back. Now here I am, all expenses paid trip to Paris, in a picture with a princess. Lucky me, huh?”

“Say uh…don’t you get a kiss with her down the line?”

“Sure do. Scene III, act III.”

Now Kevin winked.

“Lucky you, huh?”

Joaquin shrugged, and made a noise that implied less than excitement.

“Eh. It _is_ just a job, at the end of the day.”

“A lot of guys wouldn’t mind that job.”

“A lot of guys don’t know what they’re on about. Anyway, enough about my job. How’d you get yours?” He pointed to Kevin’s pistol, and the rifle he’d leaned up against the scaffold.

“Well, like I said. My father was in the gendarmerie. He taught me a thing or two. When Cheryl and her brother got a little older, their parents decided they needed a full time babysitter. So I ended up with the job.”

Joaquin raised an eyebrow.

“So where’s the brother? Princess but no prince?”

Kevin winced.

“We fought…he fought with Iudenich in the civil war. The Reds caught him and…well…”

“Ah.” Joaquin nodded. “That’s too bad.”

“Yeah. I don’t think she’ll ever quite get over it.”

“The world’s a tough place.”

“That it is.”

Joaquin strode past him and patted him on the shoulder.

“See you around, _monsieur gendarme_. Better go find your princess before some Parisian scoundrel with ill intentions gets ahold of her.”

Then he was gone, and Kevin found himself smiling profusely.

* * *

The production proceeded smoothly.

Toni was starting to get the hang of it. Five times in the past two weeks she’d had to step in for one incapacitated cameraman or another. She didn’t mind it. It gave her something to do. It made her feel useful. In fact she was beginning to grow attached to the movie, just a little. She felt like she’d invested something of herself in it. Fangs and Sweet Pea (who had yet to find time to come on set themselves) teased her relentlessly about it. But she was used to that.

Today, no cameraman needed help or replacement. Toni milled about aimlessly behind the scenes, watching the actors perform before the cameras. She liked watching the actors at work. She liked watching _Cheryl_ , in her role as the Princess de Condé most of all. Of course, the Russian would _never_ admit it, but Toni had a sneaking suspicion she was enjoying herself at least a little bit. And that was a relief. She knew it was invariably undesirable to develop any sort of personal connection to your models, but she just couldn’t help it. A year of watching the poor girl, so obviously in incredible pain, march into the studio day after day had given Toni a real soft spot for her. Sometimes she felt a little silly pitying someone who’d been born with more than she would ever have in her entire life, but it was out of her hands.

It didn’t help (or rather, _did help)_ that she was so fun to needle and so easy on the eyes it was crazy. Cheryl was attractive, of course. But that didn’t mean Toni was attracted _to_ her. Necessarily.

“Hey!” She whirled around to see a pretty young blonde woman stalking toward her, a tall redheaded fellow in tow, and behind them, Jughead Jones, head low and leather coat dragging along the ground. For a moment, she was confused, and then remembered this was Chery’s retinue.

“Oh…hi,” Toni greeted.

“You’re Jughead’s friend, right?” The big redhead said.

“Uh…yeah,” Toni replied. “Well, as of a few weeks ago. Toni Topaz, good to know you.”

Jughead smiled sheepishly.

“Hey. Well, so are we!” the blonde said with a smile. “I’m Betty. That’s’ Archie.”

Jughead looked distinctly uncomfortable. He jammed his hands into his pockets and shifted his weight busily from foot to foot.

“Yeah.” Jughead finally spoke. “We’re old friends. Way back since we were kids. I run into them here, working around the clock on  _her highness'_  staff. _S_ ince Russia. Coincidence, huh?”

It _was_ kind of a big coincidence.

“Betty and Archie, huh?” Toni asked with a smile. “Damn, does  _one_ of you have a Russian name?” For a moment she regretted saying it and hoped it wouldn’t come across as hostile or prodding. The duo just laughed.

Jughead didn’t smile, but spoke again.

“Dirty secret about European nobility and their hangers-on.” Jughead spoke in a mock-whisper. “They’re always... _European_. The English king and half of the aristocracy are Germans. The King of Sweden is French.”

They all laughed. The four took a seat beneath a row of prop cannons awaiting the Battle of Valmy scene, which would, weather and time permitting, be filmed in a few days.

“So, Jughead,” Toni said, teasingly. “It’s a _total_ coincidence that you met me, who works with Blossom, who just _happens_ to employ your old friends?” She was jesting, but she saw something move in his eyes. Fear or anger.

“The world’s a small place,” he offered. “Getting smaller.”

She took that, for the moment. “So you all grew up together.”

“Sure did,” Archie said.

“We’ve been friends since…God, I can’t remember,” Betty said.

“Where?”

“St. Petersburg,”Archie replied.

That dog didn’t hunt. Toni turned to Jughead.

“I thought you were Latvian?”

The young man’s face twitched ever so slightly. It wasn’t a flush of red or an avoidance of her gaze. It was much more subtle. She barely caught it.

Betty and Archie turned to Jughead.

“You told her you were Latvian?” They asked him.

“I meant I was Latvian–my family’s Latvian. My mother was, you know.”

“Ok.” Toni nodded, less than convinced. The same look she was sure sat on her face was evident on Jughead’s old friends, too. She decided it was prudent to change the subject. “So, did you guys know Cheryl in Russia?”

“The Blossoms lived in an estate in the country. My mother was a governess of sorts. I spent most of my time in the city. I’ve…known Cheryl for a while.” Betty answered.

“The Prince Blossom owned the neighborhood my sister and I lived in.” Jughead said darkly. “Never saw their faces, but I knew them real well. Well, I knew their _rent hikes_ , all right. You know, when the war broke out, they made this ridiculous ‘patriotic pledge’. That neither they nor any of their tenants would ‘eat more than their fair share’ until the war was won. I don’t know if they kept that promise, but _we_ sure as hell had t—”

 “Enough, Jughead.” Betty cut him off sharply. “No one wants to talk about the war right now.”

Jughead fell silent and nodded.

“You’re right. No one wants to talk about the war.”

There was a long, uncomfortable silence.

“So, Toni. How about you?” Archie asked cheerily. “What’s _your_ story?”

Toni smiled. She was never keen on sharing her life history. But they’d told her something of theirs, so maybe she owed it to them. Still, she _had_ just met them. But they were Cheryl’s retainers. If they could deal with her on a day-to-day basis they must be good, solid people.

“There’s not too much to tell, really. Have you ever been to the States?”

“America? No.” Betty said, sadly. “I’d love to go, though.”

Toni shrugged sadly.

“Well, it can be a lovely country. It can be a lot less than lovely too, though. It depends. I guess that’s most places, huh?”

“Hey, where’s Kevin?” Betty asked.

* * *

“Hey! What are you doing! Staff only!”

Kevin jumped. He snatched up his pistol, shoved it into its holster, and whirled around to locate the voice.

“ _Shit!_ ”

Instead of some annoyed security man or technician, he found himself facing down Joaquin DeSantos. The American smiled, evidently pleased with his little gag. He chuckled, patted Kevin on the shoulder, and leaned up against the wall next to him.

“Relax, _monsieur gendarme_. It’s just me. Got you though, didn’t I?”

Kevin sighed. He was having a smoke behind the dressing rooms, which he assumed probably _were_ technically of limits, even if he was the leading lady’s body guard.

“Yeah, you sure did.”

“I gotta say, I’m not sure I’ve actually ever seen you _guarding_ Blossom.”

“Well, I can’t remember the last time anybody tried to do her harm.”

“So what are you getting paid for?” he teased. “Too look pretty?”

Kevin patted his pistol.

“And tough.”

“Ah. Yeah, you do stand somewhere between those two, don’t you?” DeSantos said with a smile. Kevin chuckled.

“You think so?”

“Sure. Gotta love a man with a gun.”

“Don’t you have a movie to film?” Kevin said.

“Hey, I just fired a musket thirty times for thirty different takes. I’m thinking my lungs are about half-filled with black powder at this point. I’m taking a well-earned break. As are you, by the looks of it.”

Kevin looked the wiry, handsome American with the blue eyes over.

“Say, do they hire you for your looks or ability?”

For a moment, he was afraid he’d offended DeSantos. But then the man’s face split open into a grin, and then a laugh. He slapped his knee for emphasis.

“It varies day by day,” DeSantos said.

“What’s today?”

“Today? I’ll say 60% ability, 40% looks.”

“Huh.”

Kevin was struck by a powerful urge to kiss the American actor, though behind the scenes while they’re both technically on the duty might not be the greatest place to do that. Even though he was fairly sure at this point that DeSantos would be receptive. He took a step closer. DeSantos’ blue eyes shone.

Then a bell rings.

“Already! Everybody back to positions!” A voice thundered.

“Ah, shit. I’m back on.” DeSantos leaned in close and whispered. “See you around, _monsieur_ , yeah?”

“Sure thing.”

* * *

Jughead watched as filming resumed.

His conversation with Betty, Archie, and Toni had died down. They were joined by Cheryl’s friend Veronica and Veronica’s friend St. Clair, de facto owner of the producing studio.

“Oh, this is going to be great.” St. Clair said with a smile. He leaned in behind Veronica. “We’re going to make a real bundle on this one. Look at her.” He pointed out Cheryl, whose character was engaged in a heated argument with a nobleman played by the American once-Shakespearian actor Marmaduke Mason. “God, she looks fantastic even in that ridiculous outfit,” St. Clair gushed. “I’m going to make an absolute star out of her.”

Jughead saw Toni shoot him a look.

He focused on Cheryl. It was intensely frustrating. His target was _right there_ and he could do nothing. Not yet, anyway.

He had decided that he would have to use a train to get her out of the city and back to Russia. There were no other realistic options. Then he had to solve the problem of getting what would no doubt be a _very_ resistant princess onto that train and across the continent without arousing suspicion or alerting anyone. He could try sedating her, but he had no idea when he would get an opening of any kind to do that.

Jughead was still ruminating on these all-important questions when the sets were switched out, and it came time to film the big scene wherein the Paris mob storms the Tuileries Palace. Hundreds of Parisian extras congregated at the edges of the set, dressed in ragged, dirt-streaked period costumes. Torn waistcoats, thrice-patched trousers, and bare feet. The only unifying article was the red liberty cap they all wore. They carried prop muskets, pikes, and axes. They chatted and laughed, making spectacle out of their forefathers’ tragedy.

_“Action!”_

The scene began.

Cheryl’s Princess de Condé stood in a vaulted ballroom, awaiting the arrival of the bloodthirsty revolutionaries here for the king and queen. Jughead felt a sort of vicarious thrill. Cheryl stood up straight. The windows to the ballroom shattered, and the ‘mob’ began to pour in, waving tricolor flags and singing _La Carmagnole_.

The script called for her to stay the mob with a ‘cry of command’, and then to meet for the first time DeSantos’ character, at the head of the revolutionaries.

The mob drew closer. For a moment, Jughead could almost believe he was privy to the scenes of 1792. That this was really the Tuileries and he was watching the birth of the French Republic.

The mob closed in on Cheryl. DeSantos raised his bayonet-tipped musket into the air. The revolutionaries jabbed their pikes and sabers towards the princess-playing princess. She shrank back. That wasn’t right. She was supposed to stand firm and face them down. Outside, the cannon rumbled. DeSantos fired his musket. It was a blank of course, but the sound overrode everything else like a clap of thunder.

“ _Wait!”_ Cheryl cried, which certainly wasn’t in the script. She threw her hands over her face and sank to her knees. “Wait!” She repeated, voice quavering now. DeSantos took a step back, confused. When he realized his co-lead wasn’t acting anymore, he knelt down to see what the issue was. The mob of extras drew back, picking up on the fact that something had gone wrong.

Jughead felt the air shift next to his head, and lifted up his eyes to see Toni running out onto the set, practically leap frogging over equipment and bemused crewmen as she went. Jughead leapt to his feet and followed.

Toni knelt down next to Cheryl, who had huddled up in the middle of the faux-marble floor, hiding her face. Her skirts pooled around her.

“Dammit! _Cut_!” St. Clair yelled.

“Cut!” the director Phillips echoed.

Toni reached out and placed a hand on the shivering redhead’s arm.

“Hey. What’s wrong? What happened?”

Cheryl didn’t respond. She was silent for a moment, and then, this time in a terrified whisper, muttered again. “Wait…”

The crew crowded around them, as did Cheryl’s retinue.

Toni tried to pry Cheryl’s hand from her face, but found it wet with tears and let it be.

Jughead heroically tore off his long leather coat and draped it over the princess’ shoulders.

“Cheryl, what happened?” Toni asked again. “You’re shaking.” She gently rubbed her arm. “My God.”

As if by magic, Cheryl suddenly snapped to attention.

“I just th–oh my God, I’m sorry. I thought I was… I’m sorry. I–“ Cheryl sprang to her feet and tried to hurry away. Toni caught her with a hand on her waist.

“Wait. Wait a second.”

Cheryl tried in vain to force away the tears already trickling down her cheeks. The crowd watched, and her face burned with embarrassment.

St. Clair strode up, exasperated.

“Cheryl, darling, _what’s_ the issue?”

Veronica shot him a glare.

Toni put an arm around Cheryl’s shoulders.

“Antoine–Toni, let me–“ She trembled under Jughead’s coat.

“Come on. Come with me,” Toni said, voice soft and soothing.

Jughead watched in silence as Toni led Cheryl away. As she passed, he caught a brief glimpse of her luminous brown eyes and the sheer, naked terror there.

_That’s interesting. Very interesting._

Cheryl’s retinue watched, unsure if they should follow.

Kevin took a step forward, a hand on his revolver, as if he might gun down Cheryl’s panic.

“Don’t suppose you ought to go after her?” DeSantos asked quietly.

Jughead’s fingers twitched towards his own concealed weapon.

* * *

Toni led the shivering, weeping princess away from the lights and the crowd, back towards the dressing rooms.

“Mine is in here,” Cheryl choked out. She pushed the door open and Toni helped her inside. As soon as they were inside, Cheryl dissolved into tears again. Toni pulled her into a loose hug. Cheryl sobbed profusely into her shoulder. The thin material of her shirt was soon soaked.

“Okay…it’s alright. Just…let it all out,” she said, awkwardly, unsure of how to handle the situation. She noticed the redhead had retrieved a little silver cross from…somewhere. She was running it feverishly through her fingers now, muttering what sounded like short, desperate prayers in Russian, German, and perhaps another language or two she could not identify.

When Cheryl finally calmed down, she pulled away violently, a look of horror on her face.

“Oh God. I just–in front of everyone.” Her face went red with shame. “I don’t even know what happened. I guess it just…I thought of home and I just…I’m so embarrassed.”

Toni brushed aside a lock of tear-soaked red hair; surprised she was allowed to get that close.

“No. No, hey. It’s okay. You couldn’t help what happened.”

Cheryl looked up at her, great brown eyes glistening, full lips quivering.

“It was so much like that, you know?”

“What?”

“It was winter. 1919. We were in the north—there’s a little town called Pskov. Jason–my brother, he was a commander in Iudenich’s army. They were supposed to capture—they were fighting the Reds for Petersburg. It was a disaster. Our lines collapsed, our men ran, and…Jason…they…next thing the Reds had broken through. We hid in basements and attics for five days while they searched for us. These gangs of Red Guards, you know, marching through the streets singing that they were going to drown every last noble in the Ladoga. We barely got out but…Jason…”

Toni lowered her head.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry you had to go through that.” She rubbed Cheryl’s arm.

Cheryl shook her head. “I don’t understand how it all fell apart so fast. People screaming for my head–I just…”

Toni pulled her into another hug.

“It’s shell shock.”

“What?”

“That’s what they call it. Sweet Pea and Fangs, they told me all about it. When guys go to war, they come back but they never really get over it. When they see something or hear something that reminds them…well…it…something like _that_ can happen.”

Cheryl was silent for a long while. She wrung her hands, clutching her little silver cross. She muttered another brief prayer in Russian.

“You know…” Cheryl started at last. “Sometimes…the worst part…sometimes I wonder if we deserved it.”

“What?”

She shook her head, fresh tears spilling from her eyes.

“The Bolsheviks called us parasites. Thieves. They said we’d robbed the people for centuries and that we deserved to die. And sometimes I can’t help but think…maybe they were right. God knows my parents did some horrible things. But…”

“Cheryl, how old were you? When the revolution...”

“In 1917? I was 17. I was 19 when…”

“17? God, you were a _child_. Look, I don’t know anything about Russia, okay? I don’t know anything about the nobility or the revolution or the Bolsheviks. I don’t know who was wrong or who was right. But you were a _child_. No matter what your parents or anyone else did, it _wasn’t your fault_. You didn’t deserve what happened to you. You _don’t_. Okay? Do you believe me?”

Cheryl shook her head.

“I don’t know anymore.”

“You’re _not_ a bad person. You couldn’t help where you were born or to who. No one can. Look, you’re…impossible, and sometimes you drive me absolutely insane, but you’re _not_ a bad person. And I wish you wouldn’t think that.”

Cheryl looked at Toni like her words were the most wondrous ever spoken. She put a hand over hers.

“Thank you for saying that.”

“It’s true,” she laughed.

“There’s s–something else,” Cheryl stammered.

Toni smoothed out her red hair, still shocked her hand wasn’t being slapped away.

“What’s that?”

“What I’m _really_ afraid of.”

“What?”

Cheryl shook her head. Too terrible to say. She bowed, eyes fixed firmly on her lap. Her entire body shook.

“I’m just…every day I’m terrified that they’ll come for me. One day. I’m terrified that one day I’ll hear the wrong knock at the door, I’ll hear someone cock a pistol and…” A fresh round of tears spilled forth.

Toni shook her head.

“You’re safe here,” she said, though of course she couldn’t know that. It seemed like the right thing to say. “Look. You’re safe.” Toni squeezed Cheryl’s hand. “I promise you, the only things you’ve got to be scared of are nasty critics.” Cheryl smiled a little. It was good to see. Her nose crinkled up a little and she suddenly looked so youthful and innocent. “You know, that face powder is absolutely ruined.”

“I guess people didn’t cry in the 18 th century,” Cheryl joked.

Toni smiled back.

“Welcome to the 20 th .”

Then she leaned in and kissed her. Cheryl returned the kiss. They held it for a moment, and then broke.

“I think I might be glad I met you.” Cheryl said.

“That’s high praise coming from you.”

“It is, believe me.”

Toni kissed her again.

“See? No chekists, no revolution. Just me. And I know–“

There was a knock at the door. Both women snapped to attention.

“Who?” Cheryl called.

“Toni? Uh…Miss…your highness? It’s me, Jones.”

Toni straightened up.

“Come in, Jughead.”

The young man in his leather jacket shuffled in, a polite, soft smile on his face.

“Hi. I’m very sorry to bother you, your highness. I really hope you’re feeling better. It’s just…I’ve got to get going and I was hoping I could get my coat back. If you don’t need it anymore.”

Cheryl looked around, and then remembered it was still draped over her shoulders. She quickly pulled it off and held it out to Jughead.

“No…no…I’m fine. Thank you, Mr. Jone–Jughead. I appreciate it. I really do.”

Jughead took the coat back gently. He threw it over himself and cinched it tight around the waist. The leather crinkled.

“Of course. I’m sorry you had a bad day.”

“It wasn’t a bad day it just…I should go, too.” Cheryl sprang to her feet. She hurried out of the door.

“Cheryl, wait!” Toni cried.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?” Cheryl called back.

Then she was gone, leaving Toni alone with the young man.

“Well…how’s she doing?” Jughead asked.

Toni shrugged. She pinched the bridge of her nose.

“I think she’s okay. She just–you know, the scene made her think of…back in Russia.”

Jughead nodded. He jammed his hands into his coat pockets. “Of course. Yeah. That’s too bad.”

* * *

Cheryl hurried through the set. There was a deep, ugly fear boiling in the pit of her stomach. Toni’s words and the kiss had managed to alleviate it for a moment, but only just barely.

Rounding a corner, she ran smack into St. Clair.

“Hey!” The man reached out and put a hand on her shoulder. “What the hell happened out there?”

“I just had a…I don’t know. Sorry,” she said, eager to be out of there and back home.

“It’s fine. It’s quite alright,” he said, that tireless smile on his face. “But you’re my leading lady. I need you in good shape.”

Instinctively, Cheryl pulled away from his touch.

“Right. Thanks. It’s fine. I just need some rest.”

“Sure.”Cheryl brushed past him, heading out into the darkness. “And–hey!” He called after her. “Anything you need, just let me know.”

“Right. Thanks.”

Cheryl found Archie Betty, and Kevin waiting by the Ford. They didn’t snap to attention as they usually did. She didn’t mind. Kevin reached out and took her by the arm to help her into the automobile.

Archie started up the engine.

The drive home was silent. The stock of Kevin’s rifle poked her in the ribs for the entirety of the ride. It was a breach of his usual professionalism, but she couldn’t bring herself to complain.

It was a strange, contradictory couple of hours. She had not yet stopped trembling in fear. It had been so _strange_. It was just like Toni had said. Like being catapulted back in time. She knew, of course, that this was the here and now, but when she had been confronted with that cinema mob of bristling bayonets and banners, she was flung back into Petersburg of 1917. And she couldn’t shake the feeling that’s where she was. It was terrifying. Every time the auto jolted, or a pedestrian passed by in a hat and a dark coat, she expected to be dragged out onto the asphalt by a band of howling reds and butchered on the spot.

Cheryl heard that was how her mother and father had died in Tsaritsyn.

Her brother had it much worse.

She shook her head. As if she could clear it all away like cobwebs.

But then she thought of Antoinette (or Toni. Maybe Toni would be okay) and felt lighter. She had been the only reason Cheryl hadn’t fallen apart completely in the moments immediately after her incident. God bless and keep that obnoxious, awful, lovely, peerless American.

Cheryl pondered the kiss, which for a sheer moment had swept all of the fear and dread she carried with her into the ash heap. Of course, now it was back in force, but for a moment it had been silent. She had peace.

Did Toni like her? She had no real reason to. Cheryl had been nothing but awful to her for the past year.

But maybe she did? And if she did, so what?

A little voice swimming in the stormy depths of her conscious spoke up and said that it was okay to like someone. It was okay to find something like happiness here. She didn’t have to hate and fear for the rest of her life. She did not want to be like those fellow exiles of hers who had allowed their hatred for the Bolsheviks to devolve into a feverish obsession. Who sat up late in smoky backrooms plotting the downfall of the Soviet regime. Who poured their lives into venomous, impotent books and newspapers fulminating against international Judeo-Masonic webs of conspiracy.

She would always miss her homeland, and would always long for the day she might return, but perhaps she did not need to leave her heart there.

By the time they reached home, the bright prospect of a better future had overwhelmed the guttural terror of the day. They filed into the house in the same order as they always did: first Cheryl, then Betty, then Archie, and then finally Kevin.

Once inside, she didn’t make a beeline for her bed as usual. Instead she ambled into the dining room and fixed herself a cup of coffee. She heard Kevin whisper; “I didn’t know she knew how to make coffee”, and ignored it.

“Do you want any?” she asked her entourage. They stared at her as if she’d sprouted horns.

They wordlessly sat at the table and allowed her to pour them coffee.

“Uh…thank you, highness,” Archie muttered.

“Ethel!” Cheryl called into the darkness of the house.

The Dutch girl emerged shortly, head bowed, walking with the shuffling, and unprepossessing gait of the servant.

“Yes, highness?” she asked.

“Do you want any coffee?”

“I…suppose so?”

“I’ve given it some thought,” Cheryl said to the little assembly. “And I suppose…we really can dispense with all of the titles and genuflections now, can’t we? I can just be ‘Cheryl’, instead of ‘highness’ now, if you would like.”

Her four retainers exchanged confused, disturbed looks.

“Are you sure you don’t need to lie down?” Archie asked.

“That might take a bit of getting used to, high-er, Cheryl,” Betty said.

“Well, be that as it may, I could find it in myself to be more…forgiving towards lapses in etiquette. How does that sound?” she asked, with a weak smile on her lips.

“Good!” Kevin blurted out, and then sank back into his seat.

Betty coughed. “So…are you…okay, as far as you...know?” she asked cautiously, treading on thin ice.

“Yes,” Cheryl smiled. “I’m fine.” And it was more or less true.

* * *

Jughead called on his old friends two days later.

He arrived unannounced, a newsboy’s cap in hand, bundled up in his ubiquitous leather coat. He rang the heavy oaken door.

A moment later, Keller emerged, rifle on his shoulder, pistol at his hip.

“Oh. Hello,” Keller said. “Jones, right?”

“Jones,” Jughead said, flatly. “Have we been…properly introduced?”

“Sort of? I saw you at the set. You’re an old friend of Betty’s and Archie’s, right?”

“Right. And you’re…a new friend?”

“Well, yes. And co-worker.” He patted his rifle. “I don’t mean to be crass but…it is my job, and so I’ve got to ask; what’s your business here?”

Jughead shrugged.

“I was just hoping to visit my friends.” He looked over Keller’s shoulder into the depths of the house, and so no evidence of either his friends or his target. “Betty said I could drop by.”

Keller nodded.

“Did she? Well, I ought to check with the boss, first,” He said, unable to suppress a grin. He craned his head around and yelled back into the house; “ _Highness_?”

It took a moment, but soon enough Cheryl appeared at the head of the staircase. Jughead’s heartbeat quickened.

“What’s the–Who is that, Kevin?” she squinted at the man at the door. “I–oh, Mr. Jones.” She straightened up.

Jughead waved cheerily.

“Good morning, highness. I was just hoping I could drop by for a visit.”

Cheryl narrowed her eyes. She seemed on the verge of fleeing back into the house.

“I…I _suppose_ that’d be fine. They’re actually out at the market, as of now. But…I suppose you can wait.” Then she turned towards Keller and barked something out in German, a language Jughead did not understand. Keller nodded. Cheryl retreated back into her chambers and Keller allowed the visitor into the house.

“She told me to keep an eye on you, by the way,” Keller said, still grinning.

Jughead chuckled.

“Good advice,” he replied. And if only Keller knew _what_ good advice. He stepped over the threshold of the enemy, feeling quite victorious. Keller invited him to sit at the dining room table. “Nice rifle.” He offered.

Keller beamed.

“Thanks.” He patted the stock. “It’s an Enfield.”

Jughead grinned.

“Any good with it?”

“Damn right, I am. My father was a gendarme. I can blow your head off at three-hundred paces.”

Jughead raised his hands in mock-surrender.

“Hey, if you say so. I had a Mosin in the war, but I wasn’t _fantastic_ with it.”

A young woman emerged from the depths of the house, carrying a basket of something or the other.

“Hey, Ethel,” Keller said. “This is Jones. He’s an old friend of Betty’s and Archie’s.”

Jughead waved. The girl waved back sheepishly. She ambled over to the counter and set the basket down, retrieving a carton of eggs and a loaf of bread.

“Hello,” She said. “Ethel Mugggs. Three ‘G’s.”

Jughead chuckled.

“She’s Dutch,” Keller whispered, intentionally loud enough for her to hear. She frowned at him.

“So how’s…she doing?” Jughead jerked his head in the direction of the stairwell, and by extension Cheryl Blossom.

“Oh…she’s okay,” Ethel cut in. “She’s feeling better, thank goodness.”

Jughead nodded.

“Good to know.”

Just then, the door opened, and Betty Cooper slipped into the house. As soon as she saw her old friend, her face lit up.

“Juggy!”

She nearly fell over herself to give him a hug. He gently pulled her to her feet and completed the embrace himself. Betty pressed against him, very warm and very soft, her heart beating tenderly against his chest. Jughead felt, in the moment, quite harmless and not at all equipped to carry out his mission.

“Hey.”

“What are you doing here?” she asked

“Just thought I’d drop by. See you and Arch. Is that a problem?” he teased.

“Wh-no! Of course not! I’m…delighted you’re here. It’s only…didn’t expect you just now.”

“I can come back…”

“No! No, I mean to say…you’re fine. Sit back down. Come on.”

“Where’s Archie?”

“He’s…parking the car. He’ll show in a second.”

The door swung open and Archie Andrews entered.

“Jughead!”

“Take it down a notch, Archie. Betty's already greeted me profusely enough for the both of you.”

Archie smiled and pulled his old friend into a hug.

The three sat down at the table.

“So. What brings you by?” Archie asked.

“The whims of fate. No, actually, the other day at the set, Betty said I could stop in sometime. So I thought; I’m free today, why not today? Of course, I’ve waited some six years to see you two again, I can wait another few days…”

“Knock it off, Jug,” Archie commanded. “Come on, we’ll go down to the park. Maybe have a drink.”

Jughead beamed.

Together, the reunited trio strolled down to the rolling green a few blocks away. They found themselves a pretty hill in the shade of a twisted oak, and soon enough fell right back into their old patterns.

* * *

 

“So I told him to send it to Bombay,” Jughead finished a story. Betty laughed.

“God, I wish I could travel around the world,” she lamented. “Or at _somewhere else_ in the world.”

“I’ve hardly _traveled the world,_ ” Jughead cautioned. “Half of Europe, maybe.”

“More than either of us,” Archie said.

“Well, how about I take you around, sometime?” he said, and realized as he spoke that he wasn’t really joking. Of course, such a thing could never be, but he could dream. Betty blinked, great blue eyes wide.

“I’d like that.”

“Where do you want to go?” he asked.

“It’s kind of funny,” she said, shaking her head. ”People always say ‘Paris’, right? But…well…we’re already here.”

He smiled.

“The world’s a lot bigger than Paris, trust me.”

“Okay. America, then. Wouldn’t that be interesting?”

Jughead thought it might. His work hadn’t taken him there, yet.

“It would. New York City?”

“How about San Francisco?” Archie asked.

“I hear San Francisco’s nice,” Jughead replied. “New Orleans, maybe?”

“I’d love to visit Peking,” Betty gushed.

“I’ll start up the list,” he joked. Betty reached out and squeezed his hand. He felt his heart flutter a little.

“You write up yours, I’ll write up mine,” she said. “And we’ll put them together.”

Of course, none of that could ever be. He had a new life, now. Not one he ever thought he would, but not one that he could now abandon, either.

“Assuming you two can get away from your redheaded tyrant.”

“I think she’s outgrowing us, actually,” Betty said.

Jughead quirked an eyebrow.

“’Outgrowing you’? How’s that?”

Betty shrugged. “She’s getting a little…I don’t know, more outgoing. This motion picture is helping, I think. Maybe soon…she won’t need us anymore?”

“You’ve hit on it right there. She needs _you_ , not the other way around.”

“No, maybe I don’t need her. But on some level…I’ve always felt like I should be there for her. In a way, I guess, she _has_ been there for me. _And_  for Archie.”

Jughead sneered.

“How? By issuing orders? Treating you like whipped dogs?”

“Why do you hate her so much?” Archie asked, sounding genuinely bewildered.

He shook his head.

“I don’t…. _hate_ her,” that was a bit of a lie. “I just…”

“She was just a kid, like us. The Tsar…the dukes and princes…whatever you…whatever _we_ …hated about the old system…none of it was her fault.”

Jughead glowered.

“Right. We _were_ all just kids,” he said ruefully. “It was a bad time to grow up. _Is_ a bad time.” He shook his head. “Sometimes I wish we’d all been born just a few years later.”

He was snapped back to reality because Betty leaned in and hugged him tight.

“You’re here now. We’re here, now. It’s not everything, but it’s a start, right?”

Jughead forced a smile. He remembered _why_ he was here, now.

“Yeah. It’s a start.”

Jughead went home to the little flat he’d rented out near Montmarte. He walked tall, his long leather coat fluttering the air. He was in a good mood. He’d gotten to see his old friends again. And he was getting nearer to his target.

Of course, now he just needed to work out how to get her out of Paris alive and how to do it surreptitiously. By boat seemed unlikely. By car would take far too long. He had no idea where to begin chartering an airplane.

By train?

Sweet Pea and Fangs were railwaymen. They might help him. Of course, he’d have to figure out a convincing story to feed them. They didn’t care much for Cheryl or the highborn in general but he wasn’t sure they’d enthusiastically lend their assistance to a kidnapping.

Jughead messaged his superiors in Moscow by radiotelegraph. He’d been ordered to make contact as soon as he established her presence. He’d already waited too long.

CHERRY BLOSSOM LOCATED. NO APPARENT INJURIES TO SCHEDULE. EXPECT TO BE BACK IN PETROGRAD WITHIN THE MONTH.

GLORY TO THE INTERNATIONAL PROLETARIAT.

He sat back. A part of him was a bit saddened that he would have to be going home, soon, even if it would be to an Order of the Red Banner, the acclamation of the Sovnarkom, and his own personal satisfaction that he had completed a mission begun a long time ago. He was loath to leave his friends again. He pictured Betty’s smiling face and her bright blue eyes. His heart seemed to sink in his chest.

Then there was a knock at the door. He snapped to attention. Hurriedly slamming shut the closet where he kept the clunky radiotelegraph; he composed himself and slunk to the door. His hand fell by instinct to the pistol at his hip. Jughead waited a moment. Another knock.

“Who?” he demanded.

“Police prefecture!” came the reply.

Jughead swore under his breath.

 _Shit_.

Was this it? Had he, the consummate professional ruined everything?

He rubbed the cylinder on his revolver. With a trembling hand, he reached out and undid the latch.

Slowly, he pulled the door open. Two Parisian policemen stood there, looking very tired and very unamused. They unceremoniously tipped their hats.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” Jughead said in his halting French.

“ _Bon soir,” c_ ame the reply.

“What’s the issue?” He asked a bit too curtly.

One of the officers shook his head and snorted.

“You’ll have to forgive us, sir. May we…come in?”

He sighed and stepped aside to allow them entry. The pair crossed the threshold. Jughead glowered.

“Is there a problem?”

“Not exactly,” one of the officers said. The other rather blatantly scouted out the little flat, as if searching for something incriminating.

“Well then…not to come across as rude, but what’s the reason for the visit?”

“It’s your neighbor,” the other officer said, sounding a little embarrassed. “She’s been lodging some…complaints.”

“Complaints…about what?”

There was a moment of brief silence. The officers scouted out the room.

“Well, do you know Madame Pelletier?”

Jughead sighed. He’d never actually spoken with the woman who occupied the room across from his. She was old and not very friendly, the type to respond to a ‘good morning!’ with a scowl and a slammed door.

“Know her? No. Am I familiar with her? Yes.”

“She simply wouldn’t stop insisting we pay you a visit.” The head officer explained. “She…” He chuckled and shook his head. “She’s very old and not quite in her right mind anymore. Lost her husband to the Prussians in the 70s and never quite got over it. She seems to think you’re a German spy,” He said, forcing a smile.

Jughead felt his gut chill. What had he done? He had not been careless. He was never careless.

“Silly, of course,” the other policeman said. “But we were getting a bit tired of her incessant calling, so we decided it best to…quell her fears. We apologize for the inconvenience.”

Jughead eyed the two men. His revolver weighed heavily on his hip. They spoke as if it were an absolute absurdity. But he saw in their manner and their bearing that if they did not believe him a German spy, they at least believed him worth investigating.

“Well, I’m afraid she’s right.” Jughead joked, in an effort to defuse the situation. “I am an agent in the service of the great-and defunct-German Empire. You gallant French patriots have found me out.” He extended and crossed his wrists. “I remand myself into your gentle custody.”

The policemen laughed, their eyes without mirth.

One of them passed dangerously close to his closet.

“Well, I don’t see much evidence of Boche perfidy,” the lead officer said.

Jughead smiled.

“You’re not looking close enough.”

The policemen finished their brief perusal and returned to the doorway.

“Again, apologies for the intrusion. We’ll let her know we…investigated you, and hopefully that will get her out of our hair. And yours.”

Jughead nodded.

The officers curtly shook his hand.

“Have a good evening.” He said.

They nodded, tipped their caps again, and vanished.

He let out a deep, panicked breath. He had no idea where he could have slipped up or faltered to give the old woman any idea he was anything but a drifter passing through. Perhaps it was a coincidence. Perhaps she would have harbored the same suspicions of any newcomer. But then again, perhaps not.

Jughead steeled himself. This would be an impetus for him to work faster. There was no time to waste. There never was. Not for thinking of old friends or indulging in futures that could never be. He would carry out his orders.


End file.
